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tothelasthoursofmylife · 8 months ago

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“We couldn’t have chosen a worse date to visit Paris.”

London, England, United Kingdom – March 1846

~Cloudia~

With her intent spoken into the world, Cloudia set out to make plans. Under normal circumstances, she would have been able to watch out for any social events and work to get her hands on the guest lists. Then, she could have “coincidentally” run into Milton at a soiree or ball or garden party or whatnot, and no one would have thought anything odd about it. Unfortunately, Milton was in mourning. His father had died in early December; now that the three-month mark was reached, Milton could frequent concerts or musicals again, but was still barred from attending balls, dinner parties, and the opera. Mourning rules were significantly laxer for men than for women when it came to attire and bereavement length; the societal etiquette rules that came with death were for all, however. Cloudia did not know much about Milton. The fact that she had never even heard of him until the reception at the Layton Gallery was a strong indicator that Milton did not itch to go to social events though. Cloudia doubted she would catch him at a concert or musical either.

This meant Milton would not show up in public again until June, and Cloudia could most definitely not wait another three months until she could speak to him. She needed to sort out her odd feelings and figure out what was wrong with her, him, or them both soon; she feared she might perish otherwise.

For that reason, Cloudia had to resort to lingering around the Salisbury Villa.

It was a terrible plan; I was well aware of that. Alas, there was very little I could do, so I had to make do with the little that was within my possibilities – even if the saner choice would have been to wait for June. But Milton was also a traveller, and the chance was high that he would simply leave England after the six months had passed. And who knew when he would return then? He had been away for two years and only returned when his father was on his deathbed. If Milton left again, I might never see him again.

At least, one month after the hunt and one month after I had returned to Phantomhive Manor, I received a letter from Queen Victoria and, with it, a reason to head to London without raising any suspicions, or having to find an excuse why I would want to go there for a longer stay before the Season. The task assigned to me was ridiculous (someone was hanging men from clotheslines), but my personal endeavour did not shine with reasonableness either.

Thus, my time and attention were split, divided into unequal parts between the Hanged Men Case and the Milton-Related Idiocy (which case was given the larger portion depended not how silly I felt that day).

Today, I woke up feeling particularly stupid and went to stake out by the Salisbury Villa.

The weather might have begun to thaw, but England would not be England without unpredictable weather. Today, it was bitter cold while Cloudia promenaded around Milton’s neighbourhood. She wore a good, albeit understated dress so as not to raise any frowns if she were to run into Milton (while she might have had an explanation why she had dressed up as Keegan for the hunt, nothing could explain why she walked around London looking like a milkmaid) and to ensure that she did not give herself away. Cloudia had chosen a slightly oversized bonnet and a large cloak too. The Salisbury Villa was in Kensington, right where many, many other nobles lived, and Cloudia could not afford to be seen by anyone she knew. If people noticed her running around unchaperoned and walking circles around someone’s house (skilled gossipers were like amateur detectives at times and might possibly piece the ugly truth together), it would dent her reputation. Further, because the Hanged Men Case was progressing at a snail’s pace as it was remarkably layered for such a silly-sounding case, all of Cloudia’s Aristocrats of Evil had arrived in London one by one. Oscar was even lodging at her townhouse. Even though Cecelia and Barrington were thankfully staying at their own places, it was still a dangerous undertaking to pursue the Milton matter concurrently.

All in all, Cloudia felt like the world’s biggest fool every time she went on these walks. This time, she was a frozen fool too. And she deserved the embarrassment; after all, it was a horrid kind of endeavour and Cloudia had not even seen Milton once so far.

Staring at his house and feeling like a criminal while doing so had taught her the schedule of people going in and out. There was staff that went about without a pattern, of course, just like there were some who followed strict routines. Arrivals for work. Deliveries. Rubbish disposals. Breaks. Finishing times. At no point, no matter if Cloudia found time to do her questionable rounds in the morning, at midday, or in the evening, she had never spotted Milton. Did he never leave his house? Was there some secret entrance she knew nothing about? Cloudia could tear out her hair at the futility of it all.

Milton might be a master at unwittingly avoiding her; Wentworth, on the other hand, was an easier find.

About every two days, Cloudia could see Milton’s butler enter and leave the villa running errands. On the other days, he was as elusive as his master, likely having too much to do within the villa that he could go out. Butlers were generally not known to run around outside their workplace or apart from their employees. Today, however, Cloudia had not even seen Wentworth.

Pulling her cloak tighter around herself, Cloudia gazed at the Salisbury Villa. She knew little about the Salisburys. Cloudia had forbidden Cecelia to research Milton’s background, and though this ban obviously did not extend to her, it still felt weird and hypocritical to look into his family herself. It was unnecessary too; she wanted to know more about Milton and could not care who had lived before him in that house. The little Cloudia knew was that the Salisbury baronage was not particularly old – not by noble family standards. About a hundred years ago, Milton’s great-great-grandfather had been bestowed a peerage; around that time, he had also built the villa.

A hundred years were etched into the stately Salisbury Villa; nonetheless, it looked fresh and young next to its older neighbours. They seemed to frown contemptuously at the villa, envious of its comparative radiance, just like their inhabitants and many other nobles regarded the Salisburys. Cloudia had heard many scoffs and much ridicule directed at Milton’s family and Salisbury Trading in the past few years. From the grapevine, she also knew that neither Milton’s father nor uncle had ever cared for that chit-chat. Cloudia had never met Leland and Herbert herself; she had merely seen Leland from afar a few times at gatherings, and Herbert had died before she began attending any. (She had read about Herbert’s death, his murder, years ago and had followed the case from the beginning. When Scotland Yard’s investigation had not gone anywhere, Cloudia had secretly hoped the case would be handed to her as Herbert was a nobleman after all, but the matter had only quietly gone cold and unsolved.)

After another hour of wandering the streets around the villa and stealing glances at it, Cloudia decided that she had made enough of a fool of herself today and headed to her townhouse.

***

A few streets away from the Phantomhive townhouse, Cloudia met up with Lisa. Like the last times, she waited for her in a corner with another cloak and bonnet. Cloudia hadn’t told Lisa the specifics of her odd, solitary walks. Perhaps, she would have divulged her embarrassing secret to Newman if she could have made him her helper instead of Lisa. Unfortunately, his tall, broad stature made him as noticeable as an elephant within a crowd of mice.

“Already back, Lady Phantomhive?” asked Lisa with a grin and held out the change of clothes. Cloudia only nodded and quickly switched out the bonnet and cloak.

To what lengths I went to conceal my stupid undertaking from people – from passersby, my own servants, and, most importantly, Oscar. As much as I did not want him to know, I also wondered what his reaction would be. I could guess Cecelia’s (I would never hear the end of it) and Barrington’s (he would try to fight Milton), though not Oscar’s.

“This has been going on for quite a while now,” Lisa said when Cloudia fastened her cloak and pulled it close. Without answering her, Cloudia turned to return to the townhouse.

Lisa was quick to follow behind her. “Won’t you ever tell me what this is about?”

“No,” Cloudia replied sharply. “It’s not your business.”

“For something that is ‘not my business,’ I’m awfully involved,” Lisa pointed out. “It’s horrifically boring to wait around for you, you have to know. Can you, at least, tell me when you will be done with your very secret mission? If this keeps on, I might have to ask Al to lend me one of his books. I don’t even like reading, but it’s not like I can mend any clothes while standing in some dark alleyway. I would look like the world’s strangest dollymop.”

Cloudia walked a bit faster. Even though she could not see Lisa, she was certain she was rolling her eyes right now. “I have to say that whatever you are doing is not damaging clothes at record speeds for once,” Lisa continued, undeterred. “If I had known I would essentially become a glorified seamstress, I might have acted on those second thoughts about accepting your offer to become your handmaiden. You make me participate in this clothes exchange for whatever reason, but you never let me come with you to one of your clothes-destroying missions. Maybe, I should still act on my second thoughts about this position.”

“Do what you like,” Cloudia said finally when they arrived at the townhouse’s gate. A footman opened it for them. “Though I have to remark that harbouring second thoughts for a year is an awfully long time, Miss Greene.”

***

The days passed with Cloudia working on both her official assignment and her personal goal. The Hanged Men Case kept proving itself more complex than anyone could have anticipated with every new aspect Cloudia and her Aristocrats of Evil uncovered. Additionally, Cloudia continued to be unable to steal even a glance at Milton Salisbury. She did, however, spot more hanged men during her stakeouts. Certainly, half the adult male population of London must have been hanged on clothesline by now.

Four days later, Cloudia finally admitted to herself that her plan wasn’t working. It hadn’t been a good plan from the start, more of an embarrassing endeavour than a strategic scheme; still, Cloudia would have never fathomed it would lead to no results whatsoever. (At the very least, she was very thankful that neither Oscar nor Cecelia and Barrington had noticed that anything was amiss. Their seemingly endless Watchdog case was occupying them enough; they must attribute all her frustrations and odd behaviours to that.)

Hence, while Cloudia stared into the mirror of her vanity this morning, her brain concocted a secondary plan. One as ridiculous and mortifying as the one before but, this time, it might be successful as well. Lying low and waiting patiently had never been her strong suit, never her way to do anything.

With new determination, Cloudia picked out her clothes for the day and headed out.

***

The headquarters of Salisbury Trading did not look at all like the villa. Whereas the villa was of light stone, shimmering grey from age and silver in the right light, and simple symmetry, the headquarters was a much taller, much darker, much older building. It hadn’t been built new by the Salisburys but purchased and transformed into a place of bustling business, right in the heart of the Square Mile. Like the villa, the headquarters looked oddly out of place too with its additions and expansions that mimicked the original building well, albeit not perfectly; the discrepancy in age and material was equal times subtle as it was glaringly obvious.

Cloudia hoped that, unlike the two Salisbury edifices, she would vanish in the crowd effortlessly. Dressed for the second time like a man in just as many months, Cloudia strode into the Salisbury Trading headquarters.

There was very little I knew about Milton. He was maybe friends or not with the Disaster Trio. He liked Dickens like me. He disliked hunting even though he was very good at it. He seemed to be a hermit of the highest order, as long as he was in London.

He was the new Baron Salisbury and director of Salisbury Trading.

Milton’s words regarding the Disaster Trio did not leave me particularly hopeful that he was seeing them a lot, and mourning etiquette prevented him from such visits anyway. I could not keep tabs on every single bookstore in London and its surroundings. I had a watchful eye at one, and the probability that Milton would end up at the Sainteclare Bookstore was very small.

No; apart from the villa, the only place where I had even the slightest chance of meeting him was his workplace. Mourning curbed jovial activities, but business needed to go on as best as possible. While Milton might have a deputy and a council and whatnot, this did not change the circumstance that he had just assumed this position – and that went hand-in-hand with lots of work.

Yesterday, Cloudia had scrutinised the building from afar and realised that there was only one person at the reception desk, watching everyone come and go and handling questions and requests. Her plan was simple: Wait for lunch hour to ensure that the corridors would be bustling with people, go to the reception desk with a lie to lure the clerk away, search his place for a floorplan, and locate Milton’s office.

It was never that easy, of course.

Upon entering, Cloudia noted the cleanliness of the building, a few decorative knight’s armours lining one side of a corridor, and the fact that, indeed, the clerk at the reception desk was the only staff member on duty in the entrance hall.

Hopefully, this was though.

***

No five minutes later, Cloudia found herself in a waiting room, wondering what had just happened. She had managed to enter the building without any problems, though many of the passing-by employees had raised an eyebrow or frowned at her. However, before she could even utter the entirety of her lie to the receptionist, a man had placed his hand on her shoulder and beckoned her to follow him. His grip had been surprisingly iron-clad and, not wanting to risk a full-blown commotion, Cloudia had complied.

Now, the man was in front of the door, watching her. If Newman had stood next to him, he would have looked small and insignificant despite his own considerable height. Some places employed laughably subpar security guards; to Cloudia’s misfortune, the man’s stance, the way he carried himself, and how he had kept a tight grip on her as he had guided her here showed that he was most definitely not one of those.

Why was my luck failing me like this? What had I done to deserve this?

Cloudia let her gaze wander through the room, over the lovely grandfather’s clock on the back wall, the polished knight’s armour in the corner, the paintings on the wall, and the sofa opposite hers. When they had entered the waiting room, the man had spoken a single sentence to her: “Sit down and wait for someone to come.” Since then, Cloudia had formulated a lie to explain herself and get out of here, all while pondering who would come. She hoped it would be the security guard’s direct commander and feared it to be someone from Scotland Yard. If Arthur Randall came through this door, Cloudia’s already bad day would turn positively abysmal; she had neither nerves nor patience to see him and engage with him.

She did not have to dwell long on that fear though as someone loudly knocked on the door then. The guard opened the door for a tall man with curly brown hair and red-rimmed glasses. Cloudia recognised him from a newspaper article she had read some time ago: He was Theodore Sycamore, the deputy chief of Salisbury Trading; he had held this position since Milton’s father Leland’s time as baron.

How unexpected that someone so high-up would come to me.

Sycamore exchanged some whispered words with the guard before he glanced at Cloudia, and Cloudia could not help herself but grin at him. To her surprise, this seemed to unnerve Sycamore; she had not expected him to be so skittish. He immediately turned to address someone standing in the corridor, hidden from her sight. While Cloudia could not hear what Sycamore was saying, the reply he received was as clear as day: “Let me see for myself,” said a familiar voice. Cloudia’s heart fluttered in excitement.

I could almost hear Cecelia cackle.

Cloudia could not believe her luck when Sycamore stepped aside, and Milton entered the room. Under different circumstances, she might have jumped up at the sight of him or even punched the air in a terribly unladylike fashion. Instead, Cloudia remained still and fought back a smile when Milton’s gaze was set a moment too long on her face before he looked discreetly away – the indicator, as she now knew, that he had recognised her.

“Thank you, Theodore.” Milton said to Sycamore in a calming voice, “You can go now. I can handle this on my own. We will have to continue our conversation later if you do not mind.”

“Not at all,” replied Sycamore. Though he looked as if he wanted to say more, he ultimately only nodded and left the waiting room.

“Lucas, you are dismissed too,” Milton addressed the guard. With a tilt of his head, he followed Sycamore. Milton closed the door behind him and visibly deflated, shedding his role as company head with an exhale.

Milton turned to Cloudia and took a slow, deep breath. “That was very bold and brave, Lady Cloudia. How do I come to this honour?”

Cloudia smiled at his words. “I did not anticipate being caught immediately. I briefly feared that I would either be sent to Scotland Yard or someone from the Yard would come to collect me. Maybe I would have been more successful sneaking into Buckingham Palace instead.”

“I apologise for the trouble,” Milton replied and pulled on his sleeves. “We had some problems with intruders in the past, so everyone has become rather wary of unknown people, and security had to be heightened.”

“Still, you bring them to a nice sitting room to wait until someone comes to talk to them instead of immediately alerting the Met,” Cloudia pointed out. “I suppose, some must have been violent? Won’t someone grow suspicious or, at least, worried that you’re alone with me? Is the corridor outside lined with guards who are ready to kick open the door and bludgeon me to death if they hear me threatening or attacking you?”

Milton shook his head. “The walls of this room are very thick. Even if someone was standing outside the door – and I assure you, no one is –, they would not be able to hear anything we say. It would have been different if I had not been here and either my deputy or someone else had come to see you. They would have someone from the security department with them; some would be outside waiting too.”

Cloudia blinked at him. “Does that mean, if you come, you always come completely alone? Are you not afraid, Milton?”

“I have no reason to be.”

“Why? Surely, an intruder wants to harm your company. As you are now its director, shouldn’t they want to harm you too?”

“They do not want to harm me though,” Milton replied with surprising, almost eerie calmness. “More often than not, they have only been sent by someone who wants to. And no matter if an intruder comes because they were sent or out of their own volition, their ‘motive’ is usually despair, not ill-intent. It would be wrong to transport them to Scotland Yard without listening to them first, and they only rarely get violent.”

“‘Rarely’ is not ‘never,’” Cloudia remarked, then nodded to the knight’s armour behind her. “You are also making it very easy for others to hurt you. There’s a sword here, and you can throw the furniture, amongst others.” She shook her head. “One of these days, you will get yourself killed, Milton.”

A smile appeared on Milton’s face for a moment, just a moment, before it was gone again. Cloudia wondered not for the first time how his smile would look like if it stayed for more than a fleeting moment.

“The armours are recent additions,” Milton said.

“Just because no one has had the opportunity yet does not mean it will never happen. One of these days, Milton. Why are the armours here anyway? There were some in the corridors too.”

Milton fumbled with his sleeves absentmindedly. “They were placed all over the building because ‘knights provide protection,’ don’t they? Also, the swords cannot be removed without exerting considerable force.”

Cloudia raised an eyebrow. “Is that so?” she said before she, in a sudden surge of silliness, stood up and walked to the knight’s armour. She put her hand around the hilt and thought of King Arthur as she pulled. Unlike him, she could not remove the sword though. Cloudia tried again with both hands, but the sword did not even move a millimetre. She then tried to break off the arm – in vain. Even her attempt to move the armour as a whole proved fruitless; it was firmly secured to the ground and surprisingly heavy too. Such armours were decorating the Knights’ headquarters too, and they hadn’t weighed as much. Barrington had taken her once years ago, albeit they hadn’t been able to stay for long before Barrington’s successor, Harold Midford, had kicked them out, as he could not stand Barrington.

“Good for you,” Cloudia said, trying to keep the embarrassment out of her voice, and returned to her seat.

Milton, thankfully, did not comment on what she had just done. Instead, he hovered indecisively by the door before he ultimately sat down on the sofa opposite from her. “I suppose you have not come to talk about armoury,” Milton began. “What has brought you to me, Lady Cloudia?”

Slight panic rushed through Cloudia, but she shoved it away and said, “I simply wanted to talk to you.”

Milton became very quiet for a moment. “You only wanted to talk to me?” he slowly said at last. “For no reason in particular?”

“For no reason in particular,” she confirmed. “I wished I could have initiated this differently, only I could not possibly have done this any other way: After all, you are in mourning, and I am a lady you have no relation with. This must seem quite silly and mad.” Cloudia brushed her hands over her legs. “And now you have seen me more often in trousers than in a dress. I…” She trailed off when she noticed how taken aback Milton looked. “I am sorry to have intruded on you like this. This must be very weird to you.”

“No, I…”

“I can leave if you want me to.”

Milton ran a hand through his hair. “I cannot talk right now,” he said hesitantly, “but it would be rude to send you home after you’ve made such a great effort to see me. I need to finish a few things, and if you do not mind… would it be fine to meet up in an hour?”

Cloudia’s eyes widened.

Even knowing that Milton was not the kind of person to laugh at me and kick me out, this came wholly unexpected.

“Unless you cannot wait,” Milton hastily added. “You surely must be busy and…”

“Meeting in an hour is fine,” she was quick to say. They fell into silence for a moment before they burst out almost at once: “Where should we meet?”

Milton flushed, and Cloudia chuckled. “How about we meet at the café around the corner?” she suggested.

He nodded. “That would be fine, I suppose.”

Cloudia took a deep breath. “It would be best if I did not get changed and if you could… find something less conspicuous to wear?”

There was it again – his shadow of a smile. “Of course.�� He stood up, and she did too.

“What will you say if someone asks about me?” she enquired, walking to the door.

“Let that be my worry.”

Cloudia put her hand on the door handle. Instead of pushing it down, she turned to Milton once again. “And I can just leave? No one will stop or question me?”

He shook his head. “No. You would not have been able to leave freely if I had not cleared you. Everyone knows that.”

“This is a very strange place, Milton.”

“I’m sorry.”

Cloudia smiled at him. “Until later,” she said.

“Until later,” he said, fidgeting with his right sleeve. And then, she was gone.

***

Of course, Cloudia had no reason to think that Milton could have been lying. Even so, she was stunned by how easy it was to make her way downstairs and out of Salisbury Trading’s headquarters. No one stopped her. No one went to talk to her. No one suddenly appeared behind her to drag her to a room like before. Cloudia received some passing glances; that was all. It was as if everyone was perfectly sure that she had most definitely not killed Milton in the waiting room and strode out humming afterwards. It was a little unnerving; nonetheless, it was not that experience that bounced through her head when she left the building and took a walk around the block to pass the time.

No, her head was full of panicked thoughts.

For over a month, Milton had haunted her. For over a week, she had been staking out around his villa. Now that she had managed to arrange a meeting to talk, Cloudia was at her wit’s end, and it greatly troubled her. How many cases had she solved? How many mysteries unravelled? She had been trained since childhood to find ways to make the best out of every situation, to turn every situation around in her favour – may it be about fighting or conversing. It was a sheer impossibility to plan a fight or conversation step by step. There were patterns, of course, but opponents and interlocutors always brought the factors of surprise and randomness with them as well. Not even a fencing tournament with strict rules and guidelines could be planned because of how competitors might act within the area of possibilities. None of that was new to Cloudia; she had mastered far, far more difficult and worse situations.

With that, why was my body and mind betraying me by sending me into a panic? Over something as simple as talking to someone in private?

By the time Cloudia went to the café where she had arranged to meet Milton, she hadn’t been able to calm her racing thoughts. In fact, they had even picked up speed while she had been walking around.

Again, I could hear Cecelia in my mind so clearly as if she was right beside me, teasing me about a supposed “crush” that did not exist. And when Milton finally appeared from behind a corner, Cecelia’s voice got louder for a second before it vanished, successfully silenced.

It took Cloudia a second to recognise him. Not because Milton was wearing a dock worker’s clothes but because he had hidden his hair under a cap in such a way that none of his golden locks was visible. Still dressed in dark clothes, Milton now looked more like a wraith than a person. And while Cloudia watched him approach her, she frowned at the sight.

“I hope I did not make you wait for too long,” Milton said when he arrived beside her.

Cloudia shook her head. “Not at all. Come, let’s go somewhere else to talk.” She looked around and then pushed herself off the wall she had been leaning against. “If you do not mind,” she swiftly added.

“I don’t mind at all.”

Cloudia nodded. Without another word, she led him through the streets and towards the Thames. She had thought about their destination a bit during her earlier stroll. They could not simply sit down in a café; that would necessitate them to engage with the staff which would increase the likelihood of getting recognised. Her disguise as a man had worked out well enough with the Disaster Trio, but it was more possible for there to be keener-eyed people in public spaces. Further, Cloudia did not want their conversation to be overheard. It was more likely that someone could listen to them if they were in a café sitting down than if they were outside. A park would have been sufficient; however, the Thames’ steady, loud run would help to conceal their words, and Cloudia had not been by that one specific bridge in a while.

They did not exchange a single word on the way. From time to time, Cloudia checked if Milton was still with her. Then, she would always note with great annoyance that the sight of him startled her; there was something off about him with his hair hidden like that, and Cloudia had to suppress the urge to rip the cap from his head.

When they arrived by the river and walked along the embankment, Cloudia first caught Milton keeping his gaze on someone for a bit too long. Curious, she craned her head to glimpse at whoever Milton had recognised in the crowd. Although she was surprised to find someone who looked like an ordinary factory worker, Cloudia decided not to enquire. Just in case, she memorised that man’s appearance (patched clothes, thick dark blond moustache, unruly hair beneath a cap and curling along his ears, faint scar on his left hand, etc.). Two more times did his eyes get stuck on someone; two more times did she memorise them, and then she guided Milton to the bridge of her choice.

Not everyone had a favourite bridge, but Cloudia did. (She had once tried to talk to her cousins about it; even Cathleen had only smiled politely at that.) It would have taken less time to walk to London Bridge; however, even though it might be important historically as the first bridge across the Thames (its primary iteration at least, not its current one), Cloudia despised the nursery rhyme created for it, and her traitorous brain always replayed it in her mind whenever she crossed it. No, Cloudia had taken Milton to Blackfriars Bridge instead which was, in her eyes, infinitely more beautiful than London Bridge.

The irony that Cloudia liked the wonky Blackfriars Bridge so much despite hating “London Bridge Is Falling Down” with a passion had not escaped her. Blackfriars had had to undergo extensive repairs multiple times already – the last time had only been five years ago –, and Cloudia knew in her heart that the bridge would be dismantled and likely replaced one day. Nevertheless, when Barrington had brought Cloudia to London for the first time, and they had crossed Blackfriars Bridge, the light had hit the brownstone bridge and its nine arches so perfectly that it had looked like it was glowing. She had been to London beforehand with her cousins, though nothing she had glimpsed of the city then had fascinated her as much.

Today, the sky was hung with clouds, and Blackfriars Bridge did not shine. Regardless, Cloudia felt a jolt of warmth when she stepped on the bridge for the first time in a long while.

Cloudia and Milton walked to about the midway point before she halted and went to the railing. The Thames was, as always, grey and unremarkable, so she kept her eyes up and stared at the neighbouring Waterloo Bridge, though she could not say that the granite bridge presented a prettier sight. In recent years, it had become infamous as a popular place for suicide attempts too. Thomas Hood had written a poem about one; Cloudia refused to read it.

Cloudia noticed Milton stepping beside her. When she gazed up at him, his eyes were closed, and he was looking rather serene for a wraith. A moment later, when Milton reopened his eyes, Cloudia said, the words tumbling out of her mouth as realisation dawned upon her, “You imagined being on a boat, right? I heard you travelled a lot in the last few years.”

Milton blinked at her before he presented her with yet another small, fleeting smile. “You are right, I did. I apologise; it was odd. It simply has been months since I last travelled anywhere, and I got carried away.”

“No, it is all right,” Cloudia assured him. “I have been on boats before, though I bet the sensation of being on a ship that travels away from the kingdom is something else entirely.” She nodded to the bleary Thames. “It must help if the waters aren’t as grey and drab as here.”

“It is; it does.” Milton looked out to the river. “I was rather nervous when I left the Isle for the first time,” he said. Although he spoke softly, Cloudia could hear him clearly over the waves that hit and bullied her little faulty bridge. “My mother… My mother was afraid of great water masses. She never set foot on a ship and closed her eyes when she drove across bridges. I could only think of her and what she might think if she was alive; to know me crossing the Channel. But… I think being on a ship and travelling is one of the best feelings in the world. If you stand by a railing and close your eyes, feel the ship move beneath you and the wind in your hair, it feels as if you are walking on air.” Just when he had finished speaking, Milton’s face reddened.

Cloudia chuckled. “It’s a lovely description. Today, you cannot exactly feel the wind in your hair though.”

Milton raised a hand to his cap and briefly touched it. “It can’t be helped, unfortunately. My hair colour is not exactly inconspicuous, particularly when I am in mourning clothes.”

“I barely recognised you earlier, with your hair hidden like that,” Cloudia admitted. “The disguise works well.”

“That’s good to know.” Milton turned to look at Cloudia. “How have things been?”

I’m investigating a bothersome case involving clotheslines. Cloudia shrugged. “Unremarkable. What happened at the hunt was the event of the year for me. I doubt anything that will occur during the Season will be as notable.”

“I, too, hope nothing of the sort happens again anytime soon,” Milton agreed with a nod.

“And what about you? Have you managed to finish The Cricket on the Hearth in the meantime?”

Milton shook his head. “No. I still haven’t been able to move on from its first chapter. I did start something else though.” His gaze softened all of a sudden, and Cloudia shifted a bit under his eyes as if he had caught her doing something illicit. “Do you really want to talk about books though?”

“Yes,” Cloudia said automatically. “No,” she substituted her answer right after.

“We don’t have to if you don’t want to.”

“Yes, but…” Cloudia sighed and plucked a non-existent dust particle from her jacket.

“We can talk about anything you want,” Milton said. “You have brought me out here for no reason in particular after all.” His eyes shone for a moment, the green in them seeming glaringly bright for a second, before he directed them to the Thames again.

Cloudia mustered Milton. Questions were roaring through her mind; they were as cluttered as they were numerous. She could simply choose one to nudge the ball, set it rolling, and see where it would take her. Only she could not. Her stomach clenched. No thought stuck. She felt numb and nervous at once which was as annoying as it was infuriating.

I hated, hated this.

I hated, hated that all my determination seemed to have vanished into thin air.

I hated, hated that I was at a loss for words.

Because I knew that I had a thousand questions but no idea of what I even wanted to ask exactly.

Because it felt like something was wrong with me.

Because I didn’t want to insinuate that something was wrong with him.

Because I was still…

Because I could not stop thinking about…

“Or,” Milton’s gentle voice brought her back with a start, “or we could not talk about anything at all. If you want, we can just continue with our walk.”

***

They didn’t speak a word as they crossed Blackfriars Bridge to reach the other side of the river. As they crossed bridge and bridge in a zigzag. As they walked along the beach to Waterloo Bridge. Along the embankment, all the way to Big Ben and then across Westminster Bridge. And then all the way down to Putney Bridge and beyond.

What a strange thing it was; to walk beside each other without a set destination, without saying anything at all for hours. Yet, Cloudia did not feel strange in the slightest. With each step, the tension that had been building itself within her in the last weeks left her body. By Waterloo Bridge, it had dissipated, leaving her feeling as light as she hadn’t felt in ages. Cloudia and Milton never touched each other either, never even grazed each other as they wandered and wandered, no matter how crowded it became. There was something oddly soothing and reassuring about Milton, his presence paradoxically both faint and steadfast. At times, Cloudia felt as if she had lost him along the way, though he remained by her side all the time without complaint.

When they reached Hammersmith Bridge, they did not cross it. Instead, without a word, Cloudia turned and headed back towards the Square Mile; Milton quietly went with her. By the time they arrived in Kensington, the sun was setting.

At Hyde Park, Milton halted. Although Cloudia had navigated them throughout London until now, and they had not stopped once for anything, the end to their walk did not startle her at all. “Should we find you a hansom cab, or can you find your own way home?” Milton asked nonchalantly.

Cloudia blinked at him for a moment. “I think I will be fine without one,” she said.

He nodded. “I hope you arrive home safe and sound.”

“You too,” Cloudia replied, and added after a brief pause: “And take care of yourself; I do not want you to get hanged from a clothesline.”

A ghost of a smile played around the corners of his mouth. “I will. And…” Milton fidgeted with his sleeves. The entire way across and along the Thames, he had not adjusted his clothes once. Another paradox; truly, how could Milton be a source of calmness and so full of unrest at once? “And if you want to talk again,” he continued with a soft voice, “you can simply write to my office. I do not mind, and I assure you no one will find out. You can give a false name and address and put a star on a corner so that I know it’s you.”

Cloudia simply nodded.

“I wish you a good night, Lady Cloudia,” Milton said, lowering his voice when he spoke her name.

“Good night, Milton,” she replied, saying his name just as quietly.

With another smile and the spectre of one, they turned to go towards their respective homes. Then, Cloudia saw that Milton was heading in the direction of Kensington Palace and did not, as she had assumed, turn back towards Holland House. She stopped in her tracks, confused. “Where are you going?” she called to him. “Isn’t your villa in another direction?”

Milton paused and turned to her. “Ah, I do not live there. I cannot stand the sight of that place.”

***

Paris, Seine, France – June 1848

~Cloudia~

Smoke was rising from the locomotive, beckoning her forward, and Cloudia ran and ran.

The wind tore at her hair, at her clothes, brushed its fingers over the wound on the side of her face. It pushed against her, though not as much as she pushed against it.

Running had always made her blood sing, not just from the strain but from the bliss. No matter the situation, no matter the reason why she was running, her blood was singing whenever she did. When she had chased down John Francis, when she had hurried across the country roads towards St. Lacey, when she had dashed after criminals or cousins in childhood – it had all felt the same, the bliss, the ecstasy. Even on that day, that terrible day, when she had been unable to run, that grey, grey day with the endless rain, her whole body had yearned for that movement.

And now that yearning for running, for the wind, for the sensation of it all powered Cloudia’s tired body forward and forward.

Her focus was on the smoking locomotive – and the person hastening away from it and towards the Gare du Nord ahead. At first, the smoke had obscured who it was; now, the person had gone farther away and out of the cloud. Despite the soot and grime, it was clear that it was Yvette. Cloudia quickened her pace, raised her gun to aim.

She could not allow Yvette to pass through the train station’s arches and disappear into the city.

Cloudia loved to run – but a shot was another great way to close a distance.

She fired once, and Yvette didn’t fall. She fired twice – and fell.

Torn out of her momentum, Cloudia landed hard on the gravel. Her gun slipped out of her hand in the fall; pain exploded in her back; her head just missed the train tracks. Someone was above her, his weight heavy on her legs, on her body, but her arms were free. He pulled back his right arm, ready to punch her. Swiftly, Cloudia took out a knife and rammed it into his side before his fist hit. He yelled out, caught off guard. She shoved him away from her, pulled herself away. Keeping her eyes on the man, she reached without looking for the gun. He ripped out the knife, threw it away, lunged for her. Her fingers curled around the metal.

A shot – and a bullet scraped her cheek.

Her heart pounded in her chest. Cloudia threw herself to the ground, and another bullet sailed above her.

Damn. There was nothing to hide behind; the station, the locomotive, and the wagons were all too far away.

I rolled around, my gun in my hand. Where was this bastard? And then, of course, there was…

The man who had tackled her earlier picked her up from the ground. Cloudia yanked up her hand to fire at him when another shot rang through the air. No bullet found its way to her this time; only an unfamiliar scream accompanied the shot.

The cry distracted Cloudia and her assailant; and at that moment, someone appeared behind him. Large and shadowed by the midday sun in his back.

Newman grabbed the man’s shoulders, and he let Cloudia go. She fell back into the gravel and watched her butler punch him in the face and put his limp body next to the train tracks.

“Lady Cloudia,” Newman said and held out a hand to her. “Are you all right?”

Cloudia took his hand and let herself be heaved up. “Yes. I’m sure I’m covered in cuts and bruises but nothing serious.”

With nimble hands, Newman brushed some of the grit and dust from her clothes while Cloudia quickly looked around to assess the situation. She had not seen her attacker before; he might have been hiding in one of the wagons or waiting for them by the station. Cloudia clenched her teeth. And she had lost sight of Yvette, though she should not have been able to get far yet.

“Newman, I need to hurry,” Cloudia told him. Though Newman immediately let go of her, he also said, “One moment, Mylady.” He then retrieved a knife from his pocket and handed it to her. No, not a knife, a dagger – her father’s dagger.

Cloudia’s eyes widened. “It was on the ground in the fourth wagon from the back,” Newman explained. “I cleaned it as blood got on it.”

“Thank you,” she said, her heart skipping a happy beat when she wrapped her fingers around the hilt. The patterns of waves and waterdrops on the blade flashed in the sun as if in greeting. “But now, I really have to go.”

Newman bowed his head. “And I will follow, Mylady.”

***

~Cedric~

Dumbfounded, Cedric blinked at the place where Cloudia had been standing just seconds ago. Only when he noticed a figure moving next to him, noticed Milton taking a step to the door, did Cedric snap out of it. Without a second thought, Cedric grabbed Milton and yanked him back.

“What were you thinking?” Cedric yelled. “You could have fallen off the train, Milton!”

The explosion, the sudden, screeching halt, and Cloudia’s hurried exit had jumbled my mind; now, everything was coming back to me, sorting itself neatly in my brain.

Milton and I hurrying to the first coach, the one right behind the locomotive. Seeing two men holding Cloudia down and at gunpoint. My mind going red with alarm. Being inattentive for a second and unable to prevent Milton from…

Cedric tightened his grip on Milton’s arm at the memory. Milton looked at his hand before he glanced at the open door. Passengers were gradually streaming out of the compartments and carriages, wondering what was going on, and wanting to get away from what was happening. Cedric pulled Milton farther to the side and away from the people.

“I am sorry, Kristopher,” Milton said softly. “It was the best way to handle it. And I have practice in that.”

“Practice in running on top of moving train carriages?” Cedric pinched his nose with his free hand. “If I didn’t already have grey hair, I would be saying that you’re giving me some! A moving train, Milton!”

“I filled in as a brakeman a few times,” Milton explained as if that made anything better. “I wanted to try it out; that’s why I know how to move even atop running trains.”

“Isn’t a brakeman a particularly dangerous job? Because they often fall off wagons?”

“Yes. Bram only let me do it twice for that reason.”

“Wentworth shouldn’t have let you do it once.” Cedric pinched his nose again. “We were riding for hours to Creil, Milton – you had ample time to tell us about the protective clothing and your stint as a brakeman and whatnot! You didn’t have to surprise us, or rather me, with all that! Next time, please don’t hold back and ramble how you have never rambled before. Recite your entire résumé. I don’t care; I just don’t want to be surprised like that anymore.” Cedric looked at Milton. “And speaking about brakes and telling us – me – things, what was up with the ropes? How did you know they were there?”

“Because,” Milton said, his face reddening, “this is my train.”

Cedric stared at him. “Your what?”

Milton smiled sheepishly and peeked to the door again. “I can explain later. Shouldn’t we go out first?” He moved towards the exit, but Cedric held him back.

“Milton, is there anything else I should know?”

Milton locked eyes with him. “Nothing I can tell you,” he said quietly before he pulled himself free and ran out of the coach.

Cedric followed Milton outside, thrusting some passengers away to get to the door. Outside, the sun was shining. People were clambering out of the train, filling the area with shouts, panicked voices, annoyed grunts, and their presences and belongings. Milton was heading towards the locomotive; smoke was still rising from it. Cedric quickly scanned the area for Cloudia. After he spotted her hurrying into the left train hall (Newman was with her; his large size was hard to overlook), Cedric ran after Milton.

He blew up dust and gravel as he hastened after him, and the wind blew his hair into his face. Cedric brushed the strands away and saw a man jumping out of the locomotive and starting to sprint away. If that was Townsend, Cloudia must be chasing down Yvette right now. And if that was Townsend, where was Florentin? Still in the locomotive?

Cedric quickened his pace. Behind him, he heard the passengers’ hysteric, confused chatter, their steps on the dry grass and gravel – chatter and steps that concealed whoever was creeping up on Cedric. In one moment, he had nearly reached the locomotive; in the next, someone grabbed his hair and yanked him back, hard.

A scream escaped Cedric’s throat as he was pulled back and down to the ground. Pain swelled on his side and the back of his head. It spread across his stomach too when his attacker rammed his foot into it. Air was ripped out of his lungs. Once, twice. The edges of his vision were darkening. When the man set out to drive down his foot a third time, Cedric collected his strength and reached up to his leg. He dug his fingers into the fabric of his trousers and the skin beneath and dragged him sideways with all his might.

The man cried out when he lost his equilibrium and crashed to the ground. Cedric gasped for air and fleetly rolled himself away. He needed to get up, to get up first, but first, he needed oxygen and a second to compose himself.

Cedric got up second; nevertheless, he was on his feet when the man tried to punch him. With a pang, Cedric noticed that it was the person who had held Cloudia down earlier, the man he had knocked out. He must have woken up and left the carriage from the other end while Cedric had talked to Milton.

Shit, Cedric thought and dodged the punch. He tried to grab the man, but he jumped back, taking out a knife in the process. Shit, Cedric thought anew. The man lunged at him with his knife, and Cedric stepped back. He evaded all the man’s lunges, was forced farther and farther back and away from the locomotive. He waited for an opening; his concentration was set on it.

He only faltered when he noticed something in his periphery: Kamden was making his way through the crowd.

Cedric slapped the knife out of the man’s hands. It clattered away, but Cedric didn’t pay any attention to where it fell. His eyes were on the man farther back amongst the masses – the man who was clearly after Kamden. Cedric recognised him as the person who had lain crumpled behind Newman in the fourth wagon. “Emyr!” Cedric screamed. He wanted to run to him and was promptly wrestled to the ground. He groaned as he landed again on the hard grit.

“Emyr!” Cedric shouted between dodging punches and trying to get the man off him. “Emyr! Behind you!” But Kamden didn’t hear him. His eyes only widened when he saw Cedric and ran towards him. This only ticked off the man from carriage four. “Emyr!” Cedric yelled again and held his arms protectively over his face as he was pummelled with punches. “Emyr – look behind you! Emyr!”

“Kamden! Duck!”

Without another thought, Kamden ducked right when the man had reached him and raised his gun. Cedric managed to switch places with his attacker, rolling him to the ground, as the gunshot sounded. His blood running cold, Cedric scrambled to his feet and kicked the man in the chin before he made a run towards Kamden.

No, no, no, not Kamden.

The crowd had dispersed and come together again in the wake of the shot, clustering around the possible victim. Cedric elbowed his way through the mass, his heart racing.

Great relief washed over him, calming his nerves, when he spotted Kamden.

He was safe and sound, sitting on the ground and blinking in confusion at Milton who was talking to the onlookers, likely to explain the situation. The man from wagon four was unconscious. The travellers turned more to the man now, shifting around him. Some of them took hold of him and bound him with clothes pulled from their suitcases.

Adopting Kamden’s expression, Cedric skittered to a halt in the small clearance. Immediately, Milton turned to him. “Kristopher! Are you all right?” he asked. “I’m sorry I couldn’t help you. I was running after Townsend – I think it must have been him – when I noticed the commotion behind me and…” Milton tightened his grip on the pistol in his hand; as his own was in its holster, it must be the gun of Kamden’s attacker. Milton must have shot it out of that man’s hand and then knocked him out somehow afterwards.

“It’s fine,” said Cedric, still not quite comprehending what had just happened. “And I am too, I think. Only superficial cuts.”

Kamden tried to get up, albeit a bit too quickly, and stumbled. Milton extended his hand to him, wanting to steady him, but Kamden caught himself and took a step back. Sadness flickered in Milton’s eyes as he retracted his hand. “Townsend got away, I’m sorry,” Milton said then, matter-of-factly.

“The Countess and Newman were heading to the train station. They might be able to intercept him. You two should go there too,” Cedric said and turned to run, having remembered something. “And I will go to the locomotive for the Clockmaker.”

***

~Cloudia~

Cloudia ran to the left tunnel; Newman was right behind her, protecting her back. Passengers continued to come out of the train carriages, puzzled and terrified. Their voices, steps, and the ritter-ratter of their suitcases on the gravel were growing louder as they came closer and closer to the train station. The Gare du Nord, however, was not the opposite of the scene outside but its mirror: The people at the station had noticed the commotion, of course. A train had stopped with great noise. Something in its decoupled locomotive had exploded, and the resulting smoke kept on rising. People were beside and on the tracks. And then, there had been the gunshots, the shouts, the fighting.

Cloudia would have been surprised if the people at the train station had not noticed anything.

The Gare du Nord must always be busting at its seams already as, with only two tunnels, two platforms, and six tracks, it was a remarkably small train station for a capital. Now, the panic and turmoil made Cloudia fear that the building might begin to shake.

Station personnel were doing their best to calm down and navigate the horrified travellers, but it was still a mess. Again, Cloudia found herself in a situation with too many civilians and far too little place.

And in this madhouse, Yvette had stolen herself.

It was like looking for a needle in the haystack; only that the haystack was moving and putting Cloudia at risk of being trampled down. Even entering the tunnel came with great difficulty, for people were not simply heading towards the front doors to leave. No, of course, many had set their heart to be obnoxious onlookers, leaving the station from this side of the tunnel to see from up close what had happened.

And that’s why I didn’t like people.

However, their idiocy meant that not only Newman and I would have a horrible time getting into and through the train station – it would be the same for Yvette and Townsend and everyone else on their side.

Cloudia and Newman had just managed to get inside – Newman and his intimidatingly large physique worked wonders as people, despite their worry and curiosity, seemed to instinctively step aside for Newman, even if it looked as if it was physically impossible in this cramped place – when they heard shouts that made their ears perk up. Many were yelling right now, from travellers to personnel, but what set those shouts apart from all the others was that they were in English.

“Girl, don’t thrash around that much! Are you a fish?”

“Oh, let me go, you…”

And then their exchange was cut apart by screams.

***

~Cedric~

When Cedric arrived at the smoking locomotive, Florentin was leaving it. Albeit not by walking on his feet; instead, Florentin, bound, gagged, and bloody, was on his stomach and wiggling himself out. Cedric could not help himself but laugh at the sight and earned a seething glare for that.

“I’m sorry,” Cedric said between snorts and while trying to unfurl the rope, “but you should have known that would you look like a caterpillar if you did that.”

Florentin scowled at him and pressed out what must be expletives; the gag prevented Cedric from understanding any though. When Cedric could not undo the knot by hand, he cut through it. As soon as the rope fell off him, Florentin sat up and tore the gag from his mouth. “Could you not have done that earlier, you fool?”

“And that’s why I didn’t remove the gag first.” Cedric sighed. “You are being awfully ungrateful to the person who has come to save you.”

“Remind me, why I am in this situation in the first place?” Florentin rubbed his wrists. “Decades I’ve lived in that cabin without anyone finding it. And then you come and get spotted instantly.”

Cedric lifted his hands. “I did warn you that someone would come. Why didn’t you fight back?”

“And risk the life of the Marquis’ grandson?” Florentin coughed and scrunched up his nose. “Now, enough of this. I want to leave this ineffable smoke behind before I die again.”

Cedric offered to help him up, but Florentin only swatted his hand away and got to his feet alone. He brushed briefly over his clothes, saw that it was futile, and simply set out towards the train station without another word. Cedric wanted to follow him right away; a movement he perceived from the corner of his eye, however, made him stop and check. The train driver was still inside the locomotive, bound and gagged as Florentin had been. Clenching his jaw, Cedric entered the locomotive and quickly freed the train driver. He assisted him outside and pointed to the train station with a nod before he hurried after Florentin.

“Why didn’t you tell me about the train driver?” Cedric asked Florentin.

“What does he matter to me?” Florentin answered and put his glasses back on. He must have found a clean tissue in his pocket and scrubbed them on the way. “And don’t look at me like that. I told you I don’t like people.”

“He could have died!”

“You might have inhaled too much of the smoke,” Florentin replied dryly and then nodded to the coaches. “Or hit your head when the train stopped. If that man had been fated to die in that locomotive, there would have been a Grim Reaper – an active, French one – inside it, waiting to collect his soul. Now, have you seen one? No? Considering the scene around us, I suppose a Grim Reaper must be near though. As such, rather than preoccupying yourself with my apparent cold-heartedness, might I suggest that you turn your attention to leaving this place as rapidly as possible? Neither of us can afford to be seen.”

How I hated him being right.

“How did you fare anyway?” Cedric asked in an attempt to change the subject. Instantaneously, Florentin side-eyed him, knowing of his scheme, though he decided to answer his question for once.

“How I fared?” Florentin replied in a tone that made Cedric regret his decision. “What an unsurprisingly idiotic question coming from you. My workshop was invaded by a fool and his entourage. I was almost willing to try my hand at opening the puzzle box, simply to bring that man’s endless, asinine chatter to an end. For so long, the only fools I would encounter were at the marketplace when I’m selling my clocks. Of course, the universe could not allow me to forget that fools are everywhere and send me an overabundance of them to my home. I followed that fool…”

“Nicodemus Townsend,” said Cedric.

“If I had cared for that man’s name, I would have remembered it the first time,” Florentin said curtly.

“Then, I will feel a bit honoured that you remembered mine.”

“If that satisfies your small self, so be it, Mr Rimrod.”

Cedric stared at him.

“I was jesting,” Florentin clarified dryly before he proceeded, unbothered, “I followed that fool and his entourage to ensure the safety of both Jacques Beauchene and me, as his grandfather would not go easy on me if something happened to one of his grandchildren because of me. Of course, the fool troop could have forced me then and there to open that box, only the main idiot intended to make a spectacle out of it and chose to bring me to Paris. He also hoped to be more undisturbed in the city because he knew Countess Phantomhive was chasing him.

“When the locomotive was decoupled from the rest of the train and the engine exploded, he tried to take me with him, but I struggled against him. In the end, he made the, for once, sensible decision to escape on his own. After all, securing the box is of more importance than securing me. He could search for another Clockmaker or whatnot but would never find another Queen’s box.” Florentin pinched his nose. “If only he had come to that conclusion earlier. He could have sought out another person rather than me when he had realised that the Marquis’ grand-niece was nearby. None of you would have noticed that he had left France until later, and the neighbouring Germany is known for its clockworks too.”

“I guess, it’s a case of an inflated sense of self,” Cedric remarked. “Townsend thought he could still continue his plan and get away too.”

Florentin looked at him. “Now, tell me, where is that fool right now?”

***

~Cloudia~

The screams sent a surge through the crowd and Cloudia into action. Ahead, people were simultaneously turning away from and heading towards the source of the cries. As Cloudia made her way through, she noticed a commotion, and when she heard yet another scream, she stiffened.

I knew that voice. The voice of the man with whom Yvette had spoken. The first few screams had been hers and screams for help; this one was one of agony and clearly his.

Newman was a great help to get through the masses, but upon hearing his outcry, Cloudia rushed through on her own and ended up reaching him first.

Surrounded by people, Quentin Thibault-Nichols was sitting on the ground and holding his side with one hand. With the other, he tried to shoo away people and pleaded for them to please go and stop the soot-covered girl instead of trying to tend to him.

“Mylady!” Quentin exclaimed with surprising vitality and joy when he spotted her, though he looked pale, and a sheen of sweat was glistening on his face. “I didn’t expect to see you and your butler here.”

“And we didn’t expect to find you here either, Quentin,” said Cloudia with a little smile. “Though I faintly recall that you did tell Milton you would meet him in Paris.”

“Indeed! You have a remarkable memory, Mylady.” Quentin winced from the pain. Yet, when a woman tried to reach out to him, he energetically waved her away. Cloudia told all unhelpful helpers to leave and that she would take over. This time, having seen her furious gaze and heard her slightly threatening voice, they listened, and the crowd around them dispersed.

As soon as he arrived, Newman dropped to his knees next to Quentin and spoke to him, but Cloudia did not listen to what he was saying. Instead, she searched her pockets for the roll of gauze she had taken with her while she scanned the tunnel for Yvette. Her heart beat loudly in her chest; Yvette was nowhere to be seen, and Quentin was injured. Cloudia gritted her teeth and then knelt by Quentin’s other side, the roll of gauze now in her hands.

“That girl… I had her,” Quentin pressed out while Newman gently lifted his hand from his wound to inspect it. Yvette didn’t seem to have hit anything major; nonetheless, she had left him with a wide, deep wound that was bleeding far too much for Cloudia’s liking. “But she protested and then started screaming. Of course, people… people assumed I was doing something awful to her. And in a way I was as I was trying to drag her away, but only… but only because I saw her running out of the wrack! I figured she must know something. Anyway, people came to her rescue – and she… she used the chance before I could explain to free a hand and take out a knife…” Quentin grimaced when, presumably, a fresh wave of pain rolled over him.

“Quentin!” Cloudia heard Milton’s voice behind her. A blink later, he was already by Quentin’s other side, next to Newman. He let his eyes wander over the injury, worry unfurling on his face when he took it in.

“Milton,” Quentin strained to say. “I… I had her. I restrained her, but she managed to pull a hand free and get out her knife… People were around us; it was all so chaotic, and…”

“It is fine, Quentin,” Milton said softly. “Please don’t say another word. Everything will be fine. I…” Abruptly, Milton halted his sentence and stared at Cloudia with wide eyes as if he had only just noticed her presence. He tensed up, and Cloudia would have enquired about it if Kamden had not appeared then. He briefly touched Milton’s shoulder to get his attention. “Go away and let me,” he said.

With an odd expression on his face, Milton stood up and stepped away. Kamden swiftly took his place and rummaged in his bag. Cloudia handed him the roll of gauze before she went to Milton. By now, the train station had emptied significantly of travellers.

And Yvette and Townsend too.

I shouldn’t be standing here; I should be running after Yvette, at least. She might have managed to get away, but she could not have come far yet. Only my priority was not her; it was Townsend and the box – and where did he go? I had simply chased after the first person who had come out of the locomotive like an idiot. Maybe Cedric had been able to follow him. Hopefully, Cedric had been able to follow him. Otherwise…

“How on earth am I supposed to find them now?” Cloudia said aloud and rubbed her face. Newman and Kamden were fixing up Quentin. Elsewhere, station staff was shouting about the wayward train and leading people out. There were the sounds of suitcases and shoes scraping over the ground. Panicked, curious, annoyed chatter. The cries of children, and their parents’ soothing coos. The tick-tack and screeches of machines. Quentin’s whimpers. All sounds were deafening in the echoing tunnels.

Cloudia’s head shot up.

Something was wrong.

She whirled to Milton. Cloudia hadn’t been able to take a good look at him yet, not since before she had begun jumping from wagon to wagon. Earlier, in the last carriage before the locomotive, everything had happened so quickly – the attack, the braking, the smoke – that she had barely paid any attention to him. Now, Cloudia raked her eyes over him. His jacket was gone, and blood was splattered on his clothes. There was blood dried on his left hand, but he seemed otherwise fine physically. Cloudia worried about the odd, absent-minded expression Milton wore while he was fumbling with his right sleeve and watching Kamden and Newman tend to Quentin though.

“Milton,” she said and faintly touched his arm. This instantly ripped him out of his thoughts, and he let go of his sleeve and wrapped his fingers around his right wrist.

Milton turned to her and said, “I’m sorry, Lady Cloudia. What did you say?”

“Milton, are you all right?” Cloudia asked cautiously.

“Oh, yes, of course,” he replied and gave her a little smile that made her stomach churn. “I’m sorry for making you worry. And I apologise for ignoring what you said and not staying behind; I could not stand back, and I have every right to be here.”

“You could have got yourself killed, Milton! You’re lucky that you only injured your hand.”

“This?” Milton let go of his wrist and glanced at his wounded palm. “This is nothing, Lady Cloudia.” He looked up at her, and his gaze softened. “Lady Cloudia, I promised you I would keep myself safe. As I told you again and again, there is no reason to worry about me – and this wound is…”

“… not nothing,” interjected Kamden and appeared by Milton’s side. It was rare to see Kamden glare at anyone; when he did, Cloudia was always surprised by its viciousness as it could rival Lisa’s. Now, Kamden levelled one at Milton who blinked at him in astonishment.

“It’s not good to leave any wound untreated, Milton,” Kamden said firmly and reached for Milton’s hand, but Milton pulled it away.

“This is nothing but a minor scratch,” Milton insisted.

“I asked Mr Newman; you grabbed a dagger’s blade rather tightly and it bled considerably. He even feared you might slice through a finger. I would not classify that as a ‘minor scratch.’” Again, Kamden attempted to take Milton’s hand; again, Milton dodged him.

“You did what?” Cloudia enquired.

“Miss Guilloux attacked Mr Newman,” Milton explained tersely. “And it really is nothing. Should you not see to Quentin? Lady Cloudia cut the side of her face and her cheek as well.”

“I stitched Mr Thibault up and bandaged him already, and I will treat Cloudie next. She would want me to take a look at you first.”

Cloudia nodded in agreement. Kamden held out a hand to Milton and narrowed his eyes. “The sooner I get to you, the sooner I get to her and everyone else. We don’t have much time anyway.”

“All the more reason to simply let me be,” Milton retorted. “Townsend is getting away as we speak.”

“And that’s why you should stop being stubborn and give me your hand.”

“Milton,” Cloudia said and raised an eyebrow at him. “What’s wrong? I know you don’t want to bother anyone if it can be helped, but this is getting ridiculous.”

Milton pressed his lips together and extended his bloody hand. Kamden grabbed it, and while he began cleaning it, Milton closed his eyes. In her periphery, Cloudia noticed Cedric hurrying towards them. She turned to look and returned his wave. As much relief his sight brought her, he did not have Townsend with him. Cloudia almost wanted to scream and kick against something.

“You told the truth; it really is only a minor scratch,” Kamden said, baffled.

Cloudia spun around, just as Milton reopened his eyes to look at his hand. There was a thin, shallow cut on his palm and nothing more. “I suppose, Mr Newman must have been mistaken,” Kamden added and began bandaging Milton’s hand. “Sometimes, wounds bleed terribly even if they are small.”

Milton became very quiet. Cloudia wanted to say something when she was suddenly swept into a hug by Cedric. He held her tightly, and after the initial shock, Cloudia wrapped her arms around him too and leaned her head against his shoulder.

How odd. I didn’t even know how much I needed this.

“Countess! I’m so glad you’re all right! I found the Clockmaker; he is fine but annoying as always,” blurted out Cedric. Cloudia smiled into his shoulder. “And then Miss Greene came along with Aurèle and Jacques, and I couldn’t take it anymore.”

Kamden harrumphed. “If you can excuse me, Your Grace,” he said and pried Cedric and Cloudia apart, “but, as you can see, Cloudie is injured, and I want to tend to the wound.”

Cedric stepped away, and Cloudia sighed. “Did you see where Townsend went?” she asked Cedric while Kamden dabbed at the side of her face.

Cedric shook his head. “Only that he went towards the station. I’m sorry that I couldn’t get him. One of his goons tackled me.”

“I couldn’t get Yvette either,” said Cloudia contritely. She lifted her hand to rub her face, but Kamden gently guided it down.

“That’s not good,” Cedric replied. Cloudia was about to remind him that he had accomplished as much as she had when he continued with, “I know that you were tasked to catch Townsend, but only because he stole the box, right? The Queen’s box is the true priority, and Yvette has it.”

Cloudia stared at him. “What do you mean Yvette has it?”

“I saw her with it. We had it temporarily but had to exchange it for Jacques… it is a long story; I will tell you it later,” Cedric explained.

“You’ve seen her with it?”

“Yes. If I hadn’t, I wouldn’t be saying she has it.”

“Are you certain? Because Townsend showed the box to me right before Yvette and you and Milton arrived in the final wagon.”

For a moment, Cloudia and Cedric looked at each other with mirroring wide-eyed expressions.

“They brought a duplicate into circulation,” she said, aghast.

“One of them is a fake,” he said, at the same time with the same horrified tone.

This time, Cloudia didn’t let herself be prevented from running her hands over her face. “This can’t be happening,” she said and buried her fingers in her messy, tangled hair. “Townsend likely got a replica made to either throw us off or to offer Yvette for ‘safekeeping’ to appease her – or both. If Yvette wasn’t such a scheming person herself, we could be sure that Townsend is in possession of the real box. Only Yvette orchestrated the entire incident in Nanteuil-la-Forêt – how could we rule out that Yvette did not switch out the boxes at some point?” Cloudia pinched her nose. “We have Aurèle and Jacques with us; the mayor must know the Marquis and, by extension, them. He might help us find them. Only, securing the train stations, surveilling the borders, and mobilising the police takes time that we don’t have.

“Our best and possibly only chance, from what I can gather, is that Townsend doesn’t know that Milton’s acquaintances found his base of operations here and got his accomplices. If Townsend returns to his base, we might be able to catch him there. He might meet up with Yvette again, and they could go there together, though it is just as likely that Townsend abandons Yvette. How could we find her if she’s on her own? At least, Yvette most definitely was never in Paris before and would have to orientate herself first. Let us begin with the base though.

“Milton, could you tell us where it is?” Cloudia asked and turned to Milton. Or, rather, to where Milton had been standing only moments earlier. During his treatment and afterwards, Milton had been right next to her; Cloudia knew that he had still been there when Cedric had arrived. She looked around and located Newman hurrying towards the station doors. Without a second thought, Cloudia set out after him. Cedric scrambled to follow her.

When they arrived at the doors, Newman had put a hand on Milton’s arm and was asking him why he rushed here and whether he was well. Slowly, Milton peeled his eyes away from the door’s window. Cloudia almost flinched when she saw the blank, wide-eyed horror on his face.

“The city,” Milton spoke with a hollow voice and tightened his grip on his right wrist. “There is something wrong with the city.”

And then the glass shattered.

***

~Cedric~

Instinctively, I reached for Cloudia. My heart fluttered when she reached for me too.

We quickly got away from the entrance doors, and Alfred pulled Milton away from them too. The horrified expression had not left his face yet, and it made my blood curl. Behind and around us, people were screaming and yelling questions. I didn’t need to speak a word of French to know what they were saying.

“What is going on?”

Cedric and Cloudia continued to back away from the entrance, turned to return to Kamden and Quentin. They met them at the halfway mark; Kamden and Quentin, the former steadying the latter, must have headed towards them when the windows shattered.

On the train, Milton had seemed so steadfast, so surprisingly fearless too when he had jumped through the window, tricked Yvette, and walked atop a moving wagon. Now, it was as if whatever had given him the strength for all that had vanished, leaving him frozen up and slightly jittery; Newman had to drag him all the way here. Cedric was half-inclined to go to him but decided against it. Newman was by his side which was enough. Further, Lisa, Aurèle, and Jacques had finally caught up to them. Cedric noticed Florentin standing a bit farther away, his eyes kept firmly on their group, though the tinted glasses made his exact expression undiscernible from this distance.

Quentin gestured for everyone to follow him. With Kamden’s assistance, he guided them to a door by the side of the tunnel and unlocked it. It was a staff room, but no one was inside it right now. Thus, when Quentin and Kamden closed the door, the sounds from outside were dampened, and Cedric sighed from the relief of finally being away from masses of people again.

“The absolute worst train ride in the history of train rides,” Lisa said and folded her arms in front of her chest. She winced a little when she did it. “And now, what is going on here? Everything got quieter and now turned to hysterics again.”

“Something is going on outside,” Cloudia told her and glanced at Milton. He had sat down on the ground and kept his head down.

“I overheard some people saying there’s a revolt,” Aurèle said. His arm was in a sling, and Jacques was clinging to his brother’s uninjured side. Cedric had found Jacques – rightfully – annoying on their way to the Clockmaker’s workshop; now, seeing him in Milton’s too-big jacket and standing eerily quiet by his sibling’s side, Cedric felt terrible for the boy. He almost wanted to ask him what that dying potted plant by the window was, just to get a glimpse of the normal him again.

“And I remember that Maman mentioned tensions in the city,” continued Aurèle.

Quentin nodded. He still looked awful, though the words came out of him slightly easier now as he was not losing blood by the second anymore. “It’s been that way for months, really. There’s been an influx of people here… far too many for the city and the National Workshops to handle. I heard… heard the Assembly came together to decide the Workshops’ fate two days ago. I suppose they must have announced their decision to close them today.” Weakly, Quentin ran a hand through his already messy hair. “Everyone saw this coming but…”

“… why did it have to boil over now?” Cedric finished his thought, and Quentin nodded.

Huffing, Cloudia disassembled her messy braid and untangled her hair with her fingers. “Of course, it would have to happen today,” Cloudia pressed out between clenched teeth. “Just when we’re here and having to hunt down two criminals. Couldn’t Townsend and Yvette have stayed in Nanteuil-la-Forêt?! How are we supposed to find them now? We went from a village-sized angry mob to a city-sized one!” She furiously re-braided her hair and tossed it over her shoulder.

“I might know a way,” Milton suddenly said with a thin voice. Newman held out a hand to help him up, but Milton waved it away. Slightly shakily, he got back on his feet on his own; whatever had afflicted him earlier did not seem to be the source of his jittery state now, however. Milton’s eyes darted around, and his hands fluttered over his utility belt before he closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath.

When he re-opened them, he resembled the Milton on the train more again.

Milton opened a pocket on his belt and produced a piece of metal, slightly larger than Cedric’s hand and nearly twice as thick. “This… this is a little something I’ve been working on. Earlier, when I collided with Miss Guilloux on the train, I slipped an object into her pocket.”

Cedric blinked at him. “How? When? Weren’t you handcuffed?”

Milton smiled sheepishly. “Sleight of hand. An old acquaintance taught me years ago. At any rate, I slipped a little transmitter in her pocket, and it should still be there. The last times I was in Paris, I set up and hid some… stations across the city. If a transmitter comes close to such a station, it gets registered.” He turned on the strange apparatus and pulled out an antenna. “My employees receive a badge they’re meant to carry to work to identify themselves. I installed transmitters in the badges for those working in London – for their own safety and as a trial. If Townsend is still carrying his, then…” The screen flared to life. Milton exhaled and held it out. Two white dots were blinking on the display; only then did Cedric recognise the machine.

I glanced over to Florentin. If he had noticed Milton’s radio receiver from that distance, he did not let it show, keeping a straight face instead.

And I hoped I did too, despite the uneasiness I felt at the sight.

“We’re lucky,” said Milton. “Townsend still has his badge. Unfortunately, I cannot discern which dot refers to which transmitter and, thus, to which person.”

From one moment to the other, Milton turned red, having possibly noticed that everyone, even Lisa and Aurèle, was staring at him. Only Quentin looked grim. He peeled himself away from Kamden and gave Milton a brief side hug. “Milton…”

Milton shook his head. “It is all right, Quentin,” he said quietly. “It cannot be helped now.”

Cloudia locked eyes with Cedric. He knew instantly that she was thinking about their conversation from days ago when he had visited her room, and she had been so anxious about the implications of Milton’s work with the birdcage clock and the chain-reaction machine. Just like that particular fear had been confirmed for Cedric back on the train when Milton had picked up the Queen’s box, it had now been confirmed for her too.

“Townsend himself was never adept with technology; nevertheless, he knew from the moment he saw those blueprints that they were unlike anything he had seen before,” Yvette had said.

And, of course, worst of all, Townsend and Yvette knew as well.

“Quentin, did you finish the preparations?” Milton asked after he had composed himself again.

Quentin nodded. “Yes, I managed to finish them just before I came here, Milton. I worked like lightning!” He put his hands proudly against his hips and then cringed from the pain.

Milton reached out to him, held his arm to steady him. “Thank you, Quentin. I’m sorry you had to do all that alone. And please don’t strain yourself too much.”

Quentin slightly shook his head. “It was nothing. Couldn’t… Well, I couldn’t call myself your best engineer without proving myself, right? And your friend patched me up; I’ll live, Milton, don’t worry so much!” He patted his injured side and winced again.

Milton shot him another concerned look, though bit back on the worried words. “I had Quentin set up more stations to expand our range; nonetheless, as there aren’t stations on every corner or any beyond the city borders, our range remains rather limited. If Townsend and Miss Guilloux get too far away, if they take their transmitters too far away for any station to register them, we will lose them. The stations are robust enough that they shouldn’t get destroyed by the uprising, at least.”

“If it is like that, we should head out now,” Cloudia said, determined. “Not all of us, however.” She let her gaze wander over their little battered group. “Cecelia is waiting for us at her townhouse. Do you know where this is?” she asked Aurèle and told him the address.

Aurèle nodded. “Yes. That’s in the tenth arrondissement, close to the Seine. It’s a bit far on foot, and it will be a pain to get there in this mess. Going to our place might be, uh, bothersome too as our Paris house is not quite in Paris, as Grand-père likes his peace, and the city tends to be…” He gestured around.

“It wasn’t like that earlier,” remarked Quentin. “There was tension in the air, yes, but when I came to the Gare du Nord at eleven o’clock, Paris wasn’t in such a state. It… it wasn’t like that either right before you arrived. Whatever is going on, it has only been going on for… for about an hour. Not everything should be in shambles yet, and I came with my own carriage; the one you gave me, Milton, to get around town to check and install stations. We could try… could try heading to that townhouse in the carriage and abandon it and resume on foot if we must.”

“That sounds like a plan,” Cloudia said and nodded. “It would be for the best if all of you went to Cecelia’s house. Lisa, Quentin, and Aurèle are injured; Jacques shouldn’t be involved in any of this; Emyr is needed to look after everyone; and Mr Chastain should not go anywhere near Townsend and Yvette again. Newman, you need to get everyone safely to the destination with Aurèle and Quentin’s guidance.”

Newman bowed to Cloudia. Cedric could see slight unease creeping up to her when she turned to Milton. “Milton…” she began, but he immediately cut her off.

“No,” Milton retorted. “I know what you’re going to say. That it should only be you and Kristopher going after Miss Guilloux and Townsend and that I should go with the others – and I refuse.”

“Milton, I can understand that you want to help. You fought your case why you have every right to be here and go after Townsend back at the château, but you were almost catatonic a few minutes ago.” Cloudia held out her hand. “I don’t want to take your invention and run to spite you. I want you to stay back to ensure your safety. Please give me the device.”

Milton glanced at her hand before he met her eyes. “I will be safe.”

“Milton, we don’t have much time. You said yourself that we might lose them if they get too far away.” She took a deep breath. “What I said about Mr Chastain applies to you too. I cannot risk you.”

“You won’t. I am very willing to risk myself.” Milton clutched his receiver. “You have never even been in Paris before, Lady Cloudia.”

“One of my associates, Barrington Weaselton, wanted to come here, to the train station,” said Cloudia, and Cedric grimaced. If Barrington was heading to the train station, he most definitely had Oscar with him too. “He was originally meant to board a train and come to Nanteuil-la-Forêt,” she continued. “Now, if we run into him, he will be a helpful guide.”

“If you run into him,” Milton pointed out. Cloudia ground her teeth at his words. “What certainty do you have that you will? And that you will run into him soon? You will only get lost out there.”

Cedric looked between the two of them, and when Cloudia narrowed her eyes, their colour darkening, he had the horrid feeling that she was contemplating something she would only regret later.

“We’re only wasting time, Countess,” Cedric chimed in. Their attention snapped to him, and Cedric hurried to continue before Cloudia could say anything. “That blockhead won’t relent because you would not either, Countess. You’re awfully alike sometimes, have you noticed?” Cloudia closed her mouth again, pressing her lips together. “I will keep an eye on him,” said Cedric, softening his voice. “I promise that I will drag him away if the situation becomes too dangerous for him. All will be well.” Shouts from outside rang through the walls. “And the city too, hopefully.”

Cloudia closed her eyes for a moment. “Very well,” she said at last and levelled her gaze at Milton. “Now, where do we go?”

***

~Cloudia~

We passed a beautiful, columned building with two bell towers, and I wondered whether it was a church. A slight desire to go and check overcame me, an unwelcome wish of the curious part of me, and I promptly pushed it aside as we hurried away from the building and ran across an unbuilt area overgrown with weeds.

I would have never imagined that I would come to Paris under these circumstances, with the city in this state. Quentin had been right; the revolt didn’t seem to have been going on for long. Even if the crux of the fighting hadn’t reached us yet, it was only a matter of time. Unrest was spreading throughout the city, trickling through the streets with nauseating speed. Milton’s machine was leading us southward, and the farther we got, the more restless our surroundings became. The brawls were evolving into full-blown fights. The shouts were turning into screams. The number of barricades blocking the ways was increasing.

The uprising must have started somewhere farther south, and I was glad that the others had decided to head more to the west first, taking a little detour before going down to Cecelia’s house. Navigating these streets was becoming more and more a nightmare by foot; they would never get far by carriage unless they managed to outrun the wave of destruction. There were even some carriages toppled over and littering the way.

Nevertheless, Milton guided Cloudia and Cedric calmly and expertly through the streets. Every time, they ran into a barricade or came too close to a brawl, Milton rapidly found another route. They slalomed most of the mess, though not all of it. People were running into them frequently, on their way to find shelter or others to attack. Men and women were putting up posters on walls that called people to revolt with them. Men in military uniforms marched through the streets, on foot or horse, meeting men and women bearing all sorts of weaponry, from knives and garden axes to guns and rifles they must have snatched somewhere. Strangely enough, the insurrectionists seemed to be in the majority; at least, so far.

The sight was both a déjà-vu and not. There had been no armoured guards in Nanteuil-la-Forêt, and, here in Paris, no one was chasing them. Still, Cloudia, Cedric, and Milton had to avoid others as best as they could, lest they would only be pulled into the fighting.

Spotting some soldiers with weapons raised, Cloudia grabbed Cedric and Milton and yanked them into a small side street. A moment later, a burst of bullets was fired. Milton quickly checked the display and hurried to lead them away, taking them for yet another detour.

It would take ages until they found Yvette or Townsend in this pandemonium.

But at least, they would need ages to escape too.

Her hair clung to her scalp, and Cloudia breathed evenly and controlled as they hastened through streets and dodged attacks. She pushed herself forward and forward, her attention on high alert for everything. Yet, even though Cedric had promised to take care of him, and she knew he would keep his word, her worry always made Cloudia’s attention snap back to Milton.

As the guide, Milton walked a bit ahead of Cloudia and Cedric. Having now experienced the state of the city, Cloudia was glad that she had relented. Even with Cedric’s Grim Reaper abilities, they might have struggled to find their way forward to their targets in this chaos. However, while Milton had proven himself capable as a guide, Cloudia had noticed that he was struggling with the situation. Without fail, Milton slightly faltered whenever they passed by a corpse, or a pile of bodies. He did a good job of keeping himself together and hiding it; if Cloudia hadn’t known him that well or wasn’t watching him as intently, she would have missed all the little signs.

Cloudia held her tongue as they encountered more corpses, and she saw it again: The shift in Milton’s posture, the flicker of pain in his eyes, how his steps slowed ever so slightly. She felt Cedric’s gaze on her then, and when their eyes met, she knew that he knew what she was thinking and grappling with. It was both irritating (for she did not want to be such an open book) as well as reassuring (for she didn’t feel alone with her concerns), and Cloudia presented him with a brief, thankful smile.

Not long afterwards, they emerged into a larger street again. This one was mostly untouched by the destruction, though farther down the street, people were erecting a blockade with broken stones. When Cloudia and the others hurried past them, one of them shouted for them to come and help. Some others repeated the shout.

“What are they saying?” asked Cedric.

“They want us to help with the barricade,” Cloudia said and reached for Milton, but one of the insurgents did too at the same time. Milton dodged his hand and promptly found himself on the other end of a gun barrel instead. Cedric sucked in his breath, and Cloudia itched for her own gun. If that man wasn’t almost pressing the gun against Milton’s forehead, she would have blown his brains out already, civilian or not.

“Boy, you look reasonable,” the man said. “If you’re in to defend our republic, you either fight or make barricades. There are no other choices, not when the Assembly is trying to take everything away that we fought so hard for. Now, will you and your friends fight or help carry stones?”

Milton smiled sadly. “I wish you the best for your cause. No small issue would have pushed you over the edge like that,” he said with such unfazed gentleness that the man and his companions were momentarily startled. “I only wonder, how will it help if you kill my friends and me?”

“We don’t need useless, spineless people,” yelled someone from behind.

“Yes! We don’t need people who would rather give up on our republic than fight for it,” interjected another.

“We are only visitors from another country,” Milton continued calmly. “You would only waste ammunition.” Fleetly, he detached the cartridge box from his belt and held it up. “I have some spare bullets I could offer you.”

The man’s eyes widened at the sight, and he lowered his pistol as he reached for the box. Milton took this opportunity to step back. Cloudia charged forward, taking out her gun and ramming its butt into the man’s temple. Before he had even crumpled to the floor, she knocked out one of the other men. And she and Cedric beat them all into unconsciousness before they could do anything of note.

Panting, Cloudia slipped her pistol back into its holster and turned to Milton. “Are you all right?” she asked. Milton nodded, raking his eyes over the unconscious men, and Cloudia knew what he was thinking.

“No,” she said firmly. “Milton, we have no time to move them.”

“You’ve seen what is going on,” Milton replied. “It’s only a question of time until guards get to this street.”

“Yes, this could happen any minute now which is part of the reason why we should hurry and leave.”

He extended the device to her, and her eyes widened. “You can go ahead, Lady Cloudia.”

“Milton, don’t be ridiculous…”

“They’re going to kill these men. I can’t just go on, knowing that it was partially because of me.”

“With how things are going, they might still die today anyway.”

“And they might as well survive. If I can give them a chance for either fate, I would rather want to help them live.”

“Milton, they wanted to shoot us over some stones,” Cedric pointed out, exasperated.

“They are only stressed and enraged.” Milton took Cloudia’s hand, pressing the device into it. “It will be…”

Cloudia shoved the apparatus back to Milton. “You have not changed at all,” she said dryly. “One of these days, you will get yourself killed, Milton.”

He smiled faintly at her words. Cloudia bent to grab one of the unconscious men. “Let’s make this quick. But if one of them wakes up and tries to attack us, I will be the one who kills him, do you understand?”

Hastily, they hid the bodies in alcoves. Milton thanked Cedric and Cloudia, and Cloudia told him to leave it be before they resumed their horrible track through Paris.

The sounds of hooves on stones, of war cries and screams of agony, of gunshots and blades swung through the air became louder and more pervasive. They hammered against Cloudia’s skull, echoed through her head. It was hard to discern how far they had come from the Gare du Nord with all the route changes they had to take. She had no idea how long they had been on the chase either. Or for how long they could keep going on like that.

They had been well-rested when the Nanteuillats had descended upon them. It had been a small area too, even with the portion of the forest and the tunnel between the village and the château. There had been a finish line, a place where they could retreat too, and allies. They had set out to hunt down Townsend and Yvette after only a brief pause. They had been on horseback for hours to get to Creil. The train ride had lasted for only about an hour but had gnawed on their energy reserves and nerves as if it had gone on for centuries.

And then, they had been spat into France’s largest city, right in the middle of an uprising. Hurt, fatigued, with fraying nerves and diminishing patience.

Her Majesty owed me the best and longest holiday of my life.

Cloudia gnashed her teeth and slightly quickened her pace nonetheless – all while Milton who was ahead of her stumbled sideways against a façade. Immediately, she sped up more, caught his arm to steady him. Cedric ground to a halt next to her a moment later.

“Milton,” Cloudia said and tightened her grip on his arm. “Can you continue?”

Milton lifted his head and nodded, though Cloudia was certain she had never seen him so exhausted before. It was understandable, of course; after everything they had gone through in the last fourteen hours or more, one was bound to be fatigued. And Cloudia didn’t even know if Milton had got any rest before he had rushed from Paris to Nanteuil-la-Forêt to find Josiah Heriot and Townsend. Still, she found herself frowning at the sight of Milton’s weary face, briefly rummaging in her memories to search for an instance when he had been genuinely tired.

“I only have… a bit of a headache,” Milton said by way of explanation and closed his eyes. “I am fine; you have to trust me. I… I simply don’t do well when it’s… too loud.”

“Milton,” Cedric said quietly, “how far are Townsend and Yvette?”

Milton snapped his eyes open and held out the machine to him and Cloudia. Although Cedric had requested its consultation, she noticed him shifting a bit from one leg to the other at the sight of it. Three dots were blinking on the screen, two white ones and one black one. Cloudia sighed in relief that neither Yvette nor Townsend had managed to outrun them yet, even in this pandemonium. If they had gone out of the detection zone, she might have set the city on fire.

Milton tipped on the black dot. “That’s where we are.” He pointed at the closer of the two white dots. “We have almost reached one. They haven’t moved much in the last few minutes, possibly because they cannot proceed.”

“Or do not want to proceed,” Cloudia added. He nodded, first at her words, then down a street. “We need to head down there and then go left. If there are no hindrances, of course.”

“That’s good enough for me,” she said, the excitement pumping new energy through her veins. She held out her hand. “May I borrow the device, Milton? I can go ahead, and you can follow with the Duke at your own pace.”

Milton blinked at her hand, the motion slow and lethargic. “I only have that one device with me. We could lose you.”

“It will be fine. I might be unable to rush that far ahead anyway. And the Duke is very adept at finding me,” Cloudia said. Cedric nodded, unable to hide his grin.

Milton looked between them, his gaze unreadable despite his miserable state, before he smiled. It was the ghost of one, faint and brief, like the ones he had worn when Cloudia had first met him. Yet, they never lacked any warmth. “I trust you,” he said softly and placed the machine in her hand.

***

~Cedric~

As soon as Cloudia had dashed away, Milton sagged back against the wall. Cedric scrambled to grab his arm.

“Milton, are you…” Cedric cut himself off when he heard shouts and steps behind him. Hastily, he dragged Milton into another side street and then through another, even if it brought them off-route. The skull pendant warmed against his chest as if it was chastising him for that; or, perhaps, Cedric was simply going mad, being sleepless and hungry, and imagining the shift in temperature.

He led Milton to another wall against which he could safely sag. The instant Cedric let go of him, Milton fell against it and slid down until he was sitting on the ground.

“I’m sorry that you always get stuck with me,” said Milton. He was normally rather pale; now, his hue had lightened even further, making him appear like a ghost.

“It’s okay, Milton,” Cedric said and knelt before him. Part of him cried out in relief at that, happy to be able to sit, even if only for a while. “You’ve been holding yourself together very well. This isn’t even normal for us; how could you fare perfectly in such a situation?”

Milton became very quiet and tucked up his legs, resting his head on his knees.

While he was curled up, trying to compose himself, I let him be. In the meantime, I looked around. There was nothing of note in this side street; it seemed as if neither any insurrectionists nor any guards had found their way here yet. As such, death had not come here either so far.

But it would be everywhere soon; they would be everywhere soon.

On our chase through the city, I had spotted some already. Glasses, black suits, gardening tools. Cinematic Records rising out of people here and there. There had been no indicator that any of them had noticed me – yet.

Florentin was right; I had to be careful.

For my sake, and the sake of everyone around me.

Cedric touched Milton’s shoulder, but what was meant to be reassuring only made Milton flinch. Cedric pulled his hand away, and Milton raised his head. “I’m sorry, Kristopher, I didn’t mean…” He ran a hand through his hair and took a deep, shuddering breath. “It’s just…”

“It’s okay. Hey, Milton,” said Cedric and searched his eyes. “Is this just a headache? There’s nothing else wrong with you?”

Milton met his gaze; at least, he attempted to as his eyes shifted in and out of focus. Alarmed, Cedric reached out, though he refrained from touching him. “Milton, don’t faint on me. Mil-”

Something exploded in the distance, sending a jolt through Cedric and Milton.

“We should get going again,” said Milton and struggled to get up to his feet, in vain. He stumbled and would have fallen on his knees if Cedric hadn’t caught him. This time, Milton, thankfully, didn’t flinch, only stiffened.

Some improvement at least.

While he got up himself, Cedric helped Milton to his feet. “Milton…” he began but trailed off. He had no idea what to say.

Milton clasped his right wrist and inhaled sharply. “I’m fine,” he insisted. “I’m only a bit overwhelmed right now, and it’s been years since I last felt like that. I simply need to get used to it.” He let his hands fall to his sides. Before he could think this over, Cedric grabbed Milton’s bandaged hand.

Milton tensed. “Kristopher, I…”

“I know; I’m sorry. I just can’t risk you falling over again, and I promise to make it quick,” said Cedric and pulled him through the streets, following the pendant’s tug.

***

~Cloudia~

Down and then left.

I hurried through the narrow alleyway. There was barely anyone here except for a man cowering in a corner, hiding himself from the chaos, and another hastening along the way ahead of me, attempting to get away. I grimaced when I smelled fire, the smoke-laced air punctuated by shouts and screams. The fire didn’t seem to be close by, and I hoped it was extinguished before it could spread far.

The clacker of my shoes on the uneven stone was barely audible. Gunshots were fired elsewhere, becoming louder as I went farther down the street.

I glanced down at the machine. I was almost there.

I yanked out the skull pendant and held it in my fist, concentrating on the slight pull between the necklaces. They were still behind and seemed to have halted. Worry fluttered through my chest. And then I shook my head and stuffed the necklace back into my clothes.

I finally arrived at the end of the street, turned left without stopping.

Townsend, Yvette. Whoever was awaiting me, I couldn’t wait to beat you up.

Milton’s wondrous device led me to a small shopping area. Normally, it must be a quaint, quiet place, this little street with the cosy, inviting shopfronts – a boutique, a bakery, an apothecary, and more – just off the larger roads. Now, there was a half-finished barrier partially blocking the other end of the street, the corpses of insurgents and guards alike by its side. Windows were smashed, flowerpots upturned, bullet holes marking the ground and façades.

I checked the apparatus again. The black dot was very close to a white one – Yvette or Townsend must be hiding in one of the shops –, and it delighted me that the other white dot was blinking not far from here.

I couldn’t wait for this to end and to head to Cecelia’s house to rest.

Cloudia pocketed Milton’s device; it was a handy thing, though its dimensions were a nuisance, and she hoped it would not fall out and break. Taking out her gun, Cloudia entered the bakery first. The scent of fresh bread hung in the air; though it mixed with the smell of smoke, blood, and gunpowder wafting in from outside, it was still lovely enough to make her mouth water and her stomach rumble. She hadn’t eaten anything since they had left the château who knew how many hours ago. If Cedric had been here, he likely would have snatched the sweet pastries and stuffed them in his mouth.

After some consideration, Cloudia grabbed a sweet bread, rolled it in paper, and shoved it in her pocket. Then, she proceeded to walk carefully through the shop, making sure not to step on any glass shards or bump into any toppled-over tables. Hopefully, she would not pass over any squeaking floorboards either. After she had checked the shop area and the kitchen, she headed upstairs. She heard whimpering from one of the rooms. Cloudia slowly opened the door and peeked inside. A man, a woman, and their child were huddling behind the bed. They looked up when she made a step inside, staring petrified at her and her gun.

“I won’t hurt you. I’m only looking for someone,” Cloudia whispered and quickly inspected the wardrobe and the area under the bed before she drifted out of the room again, closing the door behind her.

Neither Yvette nor Townsend were anywhere else in this building, so Cloudia left it and looked at Milton’s machine again. The dot hadn’t moved. She returned it to her pocket and entered the boutique. Unlike the bakery, the boutique was mostly undisturbed. The glass of only one window had shattered, and the interior had been left untouched. However, the door had been left ajar.

Cloudia sneaked through the building and only found the upstairs bedroom in a state of disarray. The drawers of a dresser had been yanked open and left like that. As the clothes were still inside, she figured that whoever was living here had hastily retrieved some keepsakes or money before making their escape.

There was no sign of either Townsend or Yvette though. The flower shop and the other café were dead ends too. Cloudia cursed her terrible luck right before she stepped into the apothecary and a bullet flew past her.

Cloudia dodged the attack, raised her pistol, fired once, twice in the direction from where the bullet had come. Her own didn’t seem to have hit anything of note either but elicited a yelp. Electricity surged through her when she recognised the voice. Townsend.

Cloudia stormed inside, heard footsteps hurrying away from her. She ran into the shop’s back where the pharmacist stored and created his wares. High shelves with many small drawers rose from the ground; they had been placed behind one another, and when Cloudia passed through one of the small walkways between them, she heard a screech and a rattle. The shelf on one end was pushed over, ramming into its neighbour, and setting a domino reaction in motion that might have been welcome in chain-reaction machines, but not here.

With her eyes widened, Cloudia hurried out of the walkway, reaching its end a mere second before the shelves would have fallen on her, burying her beneath. Her heart thumped in her chest. She brought her breathing under control and then hastened after Townsend.

His stunt hadn’t given him much of a headstart – the effort to upset the heavy shelves must have robbed him of too much energy to run – and Cloudia caught up with him in no time. She rammed into him before he could leave the shop. She pinned him against the wall, slapped the gun out of his hands, and pressed the dagger against his throat.

“Found you,” Cloudia said, managing to grin despite her heavy panting. “Not so cocky anymore now, huh?”

Townsend scowled at her. His clothes, having been so impeccable before, were dirty now. His hair was dishevelled. There was an angry cut across his cheek she wished she had inflicted. “How has your taste of revolution been, Mr Townsend?” Cloudia asked him and relished in the darkening of his scowl.

Townsend harrumphed. “A revolution? What these brutes are doing is nothing but destruction, not bring anything forward with intelligence.”

“Can I remind you again of the havoc you caused in Nanteuil-la-Forêt? Or is ‘dying for the cause’ only acceptable when you set other people’s lives on the line, not when you risk your own?” Without taking her eyes off him, Cloudia fished out her handcuffs with her free hand.

“You’re lucky I must deliver you to the Queen alive as I would have loved to throw you into the Seine. I’ve never seen it before; what a fantastic first sight it would be, to see you wiggle and drown in it,” Cloudia said and forcefully turned him around to clasp the handcuffs around his wrists. She leaned forward. “But maybe we will find time so that you can tell those brutes about your ‘intelligent methods,’” she spoke into his ear. Townsend stiffened.

Grinning, Cloudia shoved him out of the apothecary and a few steps towards the unfinished barricade before Cedric and Milton appeared on the street’s other end.

“Look who I’ve found!” Cloudia exclaimed and kicked Townsend to the ground.

Cedric and Milton rushed to them. “Yes, you’ve found him!” Cedric replied just as excitedly.

“I did! I also found this.” Cloudia took out the sweet bread and threw it to him. Cedric caught it, and his eyes turned as large as saucers when he unwrapped the paper. “I’m speechless,” he said, tears filling both his voice and his eyes. “But I can’t accept this; I already promised myself to Mary Margaret and her sweets cart…”

Cloudia rolled her eyes, smiling. “Just eat the damn bread.”

“Can’t a man remind the world of his prospective maybe-betrothal in peace?”

“I doubt you can make any proposals if I stuff that bread down your throat.”

“Oh, is…” Cedric trailed off and then cleared his throat. “Ah, right, Milton, do you want some?” he asked instead, but Milton only shook his head.

Townsend craned and lifted his head upon hearing Milton’s name. “Baron Milton Salisbury in the flesh,” he said with a faint bow. “What a rare sight. What an honour to make your acquaintance at last.”

Cloudia put a foot on his back, pressed down. Townsend winced. “Don’t try anything funny,” she warned him.

He glared up at her. It was remarkable how quickly he had dropped the false niceties from the train now that their positions had flipped. “I only wish to talk to the Baron.”

“It is all right,” Milton assured Cloudia and dropped to his knees in front of Townsend. He still looked awfully exhausted, but thankfully unhurt. “Nicodemus Townsend,” he said softly. “At last, indeed.”

Townsend laughed, slight hysteria clinging to the sound. “I’ve wondered how the Watchdog could find me. She could not have possibly run after me all the way from that locomotive wrack. You did something, did you not?”

Milton quieted, and Townsend laughed again. “Maybe I should have changed plans, picked another trading company, when I had seen those blueprints. I knew then that that place was trouble; I couldn’t have fathomed that it would be such trouble though. Who would have thought that the director would personally hunt me down like that?”

“Chase,” said Milton quietly.

“Pardon?”

“I chased you,” Milton repeated, louder. “I don’t like hunts.”

“And yet you’re frightfully adept at them. I suppose now that you have chased me down, you want to kill me?”

“No. I don’t like killing people.”

“Then, how can you allow the Watchdog to take me away? While she cannot kill me herself, the Queen will have me executed. You would have killed me by proxy, just as much as she would. How can you live like that?”

“Why did you kill Josiah Heriot?” asked Milton softly. “Why did you make the villagers kill one another?”

Townsend blinked at him. “Because…”

“How can you live knowing you caused their deaths?” Milton fumbled with his right sleeve. “There is nothing I can do for you. Your fate does not lie in my hands but in Her Majesty’s. And I for one am living with worse than the knowledge that I might cause you to be incarcerated and executed, Mr Townsend.”

Townsend mustered Milton curiously. “I have to admit that you have surprised me, Baron Salisbury. You are not like I believed you to be; not like anyone believed you to be, I would bet.” He strained to glance up to Cloudia and failed. “Two misconceptions on my side on one day.”

“Three,” Cloudia interjected. “You thought you were a genius revolutionist too.”

Cedric snickered. Cloudia didn’t have to look down to know that Townsend must be sporting the darkest scowl.

“To have been chased down by the Queen’s Watchdog and one enigmatic baron,” continued Townsend through gritted teeth, “only showed how dangerous me and my cause are.”

“It is only about the box,” Cloudia replied. “If you had been a common thief with no other motive than to sell it, I would have come for you too.”

“You misused my company and killed one of my employees,” Milton said with a cold edge to his words.

Cedric nodded. “No one cares about you specifically and your cause.”

Townsend raised an eyebrow. “And who are you?”

“Enough of this,” Cloudia said before Cedric could respond. She knelt beside Townsend and searched him for the Queen’s box.

“How unladylike of you to frisk me,” Townsend remarked. Cloudia hit his head and continued until she found the black box. She raised it towards the sun; its afternoon light got tangled in the furrows that ran unevenly over the entire box. A triumphant warmth sang through Cloudia as she held it; after everything she had to go through, she finally had the box.

One of them at least.

Damn replica.

Cloudia was about to pocket the Queen’s box when she noticed that Milton had set his eyes on it, following it intently with a glint in his eyes that she didn’t like. Unfortunately, Townsend noted it too. “Of course,” he said, epiphany lightening his voice, “you would appreciate the puzzle box, my baron.”

Ignoring Townsend, Milton extended his hand to Cloudia. “May… may I?”

Cloudia hesitated. She hadn’t wanted Townsend or anyone to know that Milton might be able to open the box and force him to try. Only Townsend was now captured; there was nothing he could do anymore. Nonetheless, Cloudia handed Milton the box with slight reluctance. She watched him turn it over in his hands, run his fingers along the furrows and edges; in her periphery, Cloudia saw that Cedric was observing Milton too, all while holding his breath as she did.

“This one is not like the other one,” stated Milton, making everyone’s ears perk up. “This one is well-made, albeit not as finely. Miss Guilloux’s was a bit heavier too and of a deeper black.”

Townsend cursed. “That goddamn girl. She switched the boxes.”

Cedric plucked the box from Milton’s hands, scrutinised it too. “It looks the same to me.”

“It is a well-done duplicate,” noted Milton.

“But not well done enough,” Cloudia added.

Milton nodded. “You cannot make a perfect copy of something you don’t fully know or comprehend. Any replica of Her Majesty’s box was bound to be imperfect.”

Cloudia took the box back and pocketed it. “Congratulations, Mr Genius Revolutionary, you were outsmarted by an unrefined French village girl.”

Cloudia pulled Townsend with her to his feet. Cedric helped Milton up, and Milton thanked him with a weary smile. Townsend raised an eyebrow, but before he could make any comment on Milton’s state, Cloudia twisted his arm and made him cry out instead.

She gestured for Cedric to take the device from her pocket. Cedric reached out, but then his eyes widened, and he grabbed her arm instead. He yanked her, and by extension Townsend, to the side before the bullet could hit any of them.

Cloudia pushed a protesting Townsend to the ground, whirled around, her hand drifting to her holster. There was a guard on the other end of the street. She ripped out her pistol, set out to fire.

Another bullet soared through the air.

Not from her gun.

Nor from the guard’s.

With a cry, the soldier stumbled back as his pistol was shot out of his hand.

Cloudia spun back to Milton, but his hands were empty. Cedric hastened past her to the guard. Cloudia frowned, and Milton’s expression changed. From wide-eyed puzzlement to something she could not place. He went rigid.

Someone rushed towards them, a blur she could barely make out.

She saw Milton’s hand move to his belt.

There was something, someone, behind him now.

And then his eyes rolled back, and he fell…

…right into Oscar Livingstone’s arms.

Cloudia blinked when the moment was over, and time ran normally again. Suddenly, Oscar had appeared from behind the partial barricade, shot at the guard, and sprinted across the street, right on time to catch a fainted Milton. Oscar sank to his knees, taking Milton with him. Milton’s head rolled against his chest. Oscar didn’t seem to mind and only levelled his steady gaze at Cloudia.

“Hello, Mylady,” Oscar said calmly and glanced at Townsend. “You have found him, as expected.”

“Yes, yes, I did,” Cloudia replied, still annoyingly disoriented by what had just transpired. She dropped to her knees, raked her eyes over Milton. He rested so peacefully in Oscar’s arms. The increasingly pained expression he had worn since they had left the train station was gone now, and the sight warmed Cloudia’s heart with relief, even if his pain had been smoothed away by unconsciousness.

“He will be fine,” Oscar assured her. “He only seems to have overdone himself.”

She nodded slowly and then frowned after scanning the area. “Isn’t it odd that that soldier was on his own?” asked Cloudia and stood up again. “Did you see many guards on your way, Oscar?”

“I’ve noticed their small number as well,” Oscar told her. His gaze darkened before a crooked smile appeared on his lips. “That’s an interesting strategy, isn’t it? They must be planning something positively dreadful.”

“Countess! I have knock…” called Cedric and quickly cut himself off. “Who was speaking of the devil?” he groaned. Then, he saw Milton in Oscar’s arms; his eyes widened, and he quickened his steps. “What have you done to him?” Cedric demanded to know.

“He fainted,” said Oscar dryly.

Cedric glared at him and opened his mouth to reply, but whatever he had wanted to snap back at Oscar, it was drowned by a familiar “Oscar Livingstone, you bastard, don’t run off like that!”

Now it was Cloudia’s turn to groan.

In retrospect, I should have left them both at home and sent Townsend back by post. Cedric had been right.

Barrington Weaselton walked around the stone blockade, and his green eyes lit up upon seeing Cloudia. “Dia!” he cried out. He hurried to hug her, though Cloudia had enough energy left to dodge his embrace. Barrington’s shoulders sagged. “Please, one hug, Dia! A singular hug! I’ve been stuck with Oscar for days. And then Cecelia joined us and did nothing but complain and complain that we allegedly scuffed her husband’s great-grandmother’s ornamental Moroccan side table, and she didn’t want to hear a word about how that thing is over a hundred years old, thousands of people could have scuffed it up besides us and…”

Cloudia held up a hand, her head already tingling. “Barrington, we are on a Watchdog mission, and the city is going through an uprising. Certainly, we can hug and talk about side tables later?”

“I’ve threatened Weaselton multiple times already that I will throw him into the Seine, and he still keeps on with that,” Oscar said, annoyed.

“It’s not a threat if you cannot kill anyone without permission anyway,” Barrington shot back.

“Aren’t there any other threats in the world?” mumbled Townsend.

Cloudia kicked Townsend and automatically felt a bit better when she heard him whimper.

Barrington scrutinised their little group and frowned at Milton’s still body in Oscar’s lap. “Now, who gave you permission to kill him?”

“He’s unconscious, you idiot,” Oscar retorted.

“Milton can and should be unconscious elsewhere though,” said Cedric. “Give him to me; I will carry him.”

“Milton?” asked Barrington, blinking. “As in Milton Salisbury?” He looked at Cloudia. “The boy who…”

“Yes,” Cloudia said, irritated.

Barrington sighed. “That’s him then. I wished he had an unfortunate face, but, at least, he has an unfortunate name. Having ‘Milton’ as your given name is essentially an invitation for everyone to bully you. His parents mustn’t have loved him much...”

“Can’t you ever stay on topic?” Oscar snarled.

“Your name is Barrington,” Cedric reminded him.

Cloudia rubbed her temples. “Enough of that.” She let her eyes wander between Oscar and Barrington. “We captured Townsend but have not secured the Queen’s puzzle box yet because he got himself a replica to give to some girl, and then she exchanged them. She should be somewhere around here, and we need to hurry before she fully escapes our grasp.

“The Duke and I will go after the girl. Barrington, I need you to take Townsend and return with Oscar to Cecelia’s house. Oscar will carry Milton there; can you do that, Oscar?”

Oscar nodded while Cedric interjected, “Countess, we can’t let Oscar carry Milton.”

“Why not?” asked Cloudia. “He may be the oldest out of us, but he’s still fit enough.”

“I don’t mean that.” Cedric glared at Oscar. “I don’t trust that man as far as I can throw him. What if he just discards Milton somewhere because he can’t be bothered to carry him anymore? It’s not like Milton is our priority for this mission. That clown here is,” he added and pointed at Townsend.

Cloudia sighed. “Oscar won’t discard Milton.”

“Into the Seine?” Townsend suggested, and she kicked him again.

“All I’m saying is that Barrington and Oscar should switch,” Cedric said. “Oscar takes Townsend, and Barrington carries Milton.”

Oscar slightly tilted his head. “Interesting. I would have wagered that both Weaselton and you would rejoice at the prospect of getting rid of him.”

Cedric stiffened momentarily. “No, of course, I wouldn’t rejoice at that,” he clarified. “He…” He let his eyes sink to Milton; Cloudia wondered what was going on in his head now. “Milton is a friend,” Cedric said ultimately.

Oscar briefly mustered him. “I see,” he replied. “I will be careful.” With that, he got up, scooping Milton up with surprising gentleness. Oscar adjusted him in his arms a bit and frowned.

“What is it?” enquired Cloudia.

“I didn’t expect him to be so… light,” Oscar said and shook his head. “I will bring him to Williams’ house and keep him safe, Mylady,” he added then.

“I know. You have no reason to harm him after all.” Cloudia looked down at Milton. There was a stench in the air from the bodies and the gunpowder, and one had to strain to hear their own words in this cacophony of shouts and fighting; yet, Milton hadn’t even stirred so far.

A rush of coldness overcame her then, though Cloudia swiftly shook herself free from it. Later, she thought.

“When he wakes up, Oscar,” Cloudia said instead, “please tell him he did well – and that I will return his property in one piece. But for now, we still need it.” Cloudia nodded to Cedric. “Let’s go.”

***

~Cedric~

Around us, the revolt was getting worse. The blinking dot was leading us farther south and, thus, closer to the epicentre of it all. Fires were started and extinguished. Insurgents knocked on doors, shouting for the residents to come out and help with the barricades. We gave them a wide berth, not wanting to catch their attention and risk another confrontation like before. Still, we couldn’t fully steer clear of the fights as they grew more frequent.

People were everywhere, with knives and axes, guns and rifles, swords and metal rods, and whatnot. We dodged stray bullets and pushed through the growing crowds.

All this running and hiding was gnawing at my energy; I was surprised that Cloudia and I could still go on. I supposed we must be running on pure adrenaline, determination, and frustration. According to Milton’s receiver, Yvette wasn’t even far. Her dot was moving slowly across the screen, and we were always so close until another barricade or destroyed carriage blocked the way, and we had to find another path. Without Milton and his internal map of the city, we moved slower ahead, and all that fuelled our irritation.

Abruptly, Cloudia pulled Cedric into an abandoned house. “Undertaker,” she pressed out between laboured breaths. “Can you get us to the roof of that block?” She nodded to them. “Yvette should be somewhere on the other side of it, and the crowd is so thick here. I have no idea how we could round it and get to her on time…”

“I can’t fly, Countess,” Cedric reminded her.

“I know. I know.” She grabbed his hand and locked eyes with him. “But you have fantastic agility. Sir Isaac Newton would fall from his apple tree if he could see you defying gravity like that.” Cloudia pointed at an upturned carriage and a row of balconies that ran up the building. “You can jump from place to place and get us up to the roof. There should be balconies, or, at least, debris or something on the other side as well so that we can get down.”

“Paris is currently swarming with Grim Reapers working overtime right now,” replied Cedric. “Maybe the Dispatch’s Paris Branch will revolt next.”

Cloudia gripped his hand tighter. “Undertaker, you’ve seriously decided to be reasonable today?” She touched his forehead. “Do you have a fever…”

Blood shot up to his face. Cedric hastily grabbed her hand and pulled it away from his head. “I’m not suddenly deciding to be reasonable for once. I can’t risk you being caught with me.”

“You can’t risk me?”

“And don’t quote Milton to me.”

“I won’t because I don’t have to.” Cloudia leaned forward. Their faces were only one or two centimetres apart, and Cedric’s heart was racing like a traitor. If she noticed it, he hoped she would attribute it to the million kilometres he had run today. “You won’t be at risk. I won’t be at risk. And you know why? Because Paris is swarming with Grim Reapers! They won’t pay any attention to another rushing around; you are only one of many. You will be a tree hiding in a forest. And they all have too much to do to question your presence or wonder why I’m with you.”

She pulled back, and Cedric breathed again. At least, he did until Cloudia dragged him through the house, up the stairs to the bedroom. She threw open the wardrobe and searched through it. Triumphantly, she held up a black coat at last. “Put this on, just in case. It’s odd seeing you in anything but black anyway.”

***

She likes me in black, Cedric thought as they jumped to the next balcony. It was a stupid thought, brought about, at least, partially by fatigue. Nonetheless, he welcomed its persistence and the sheer space it had rapidly claimed in his mind, for it distracted him from the fact that he was carrying Cloudia bridal-style up a roof.

And from how pretty she looked in his arms, her blue eyes so wide and shining with wonder and excitement as they manoeuvred up despite the chaos around.

Cedric strained to concentrate on the next balcony.

She thinks I look pretty in black. Flowerpot kicked down.

She called my agility fantastic. The resident shrieked at their sight.

She–

“Undertaker,” Cloudia hissed. “We’re already on the roof, why are you still jumping up?”

Sobered at once, Cedric said, “I might actually have a fever.”

She touched his forehead. “You’re only hot from the jumping,” she replied and drew away her hand.

“Hm,” Cedric made and carried her to the roof’s edge, fighting the urge to follow the kicked-off flowerpot into the doom below. “Are you holding on tightly?”

Cloudia nodded, and Cedric jumped to the balcony below. And down, down, down, they went until they arrived on the ground.

Cedric set her back down on her feet. Cloudia produced the receiver, checked the screen, and pointed ahead. “Come, we almost have her.”

This side of the block wasn’t any better than the other. Stones were carried to form more barriers, and people were slipping through the holes of finished ones. Guards were switching sides, fighting side by side with insurgents against their former comrades.

Cedric noticed Cloudia straighten up next to him. She spotted Yvette, he thought and matched her pace when she sped up.

Cloudia raised her gun when they were close. Yvette was just ahead of them, hurrying along a façade. Cloudia pulled the trigger. Someone fell against her. The bullet’s trajectory was thrown off; instead of hitting Yvette, it only burrowed itself in the wall next to her. Yvette snapped her head to the side. Her eyes widened, and she whirled around and sprinted away. Cloudia immediately ran after her, cursing under her breath.

“Countess!” Cedric called and hurried after her, elbowing through the crowd, cringing when shots were fired, and his already-strained ears further abused. He saw Cloudia vanishing around a corner, and he goaded himself into being quicker, being faster, all while shoving people out of the way.

He couldn’t lose her here. Not in this city. Not in this situation. Not even if they had the pendants.

Cedric worked himself forward.

Someone rammed into him from behind, and the world went blurry.

***

~Cloudia~

Her heart beat quicker, pumping and pumping blood through her body, and pulsed in her ears.

Yvette was right ahead, and Cloudia had always been a runner.

With newfound, adrenaline-induced strength, Cloudia thrust guards away, yanked knives out of insurrectionists’ hands, zig-zagged around their bodies, dead or alive, until Yvette was only a hair’s breadth away. Cloudia shot out her hand, grabbed her collar, slammed her against a wall.

“Do you know how much I’ve been running today because of you?!” Cloudia pulled out the dagger, but Yvette kicked her away, sending her careening backwards.

“No one asked you to hunt me down, Miss Watchdog,” replied Yvette and lunged with her knife at Cloudia.

Cloudia raised the dagger, blade hitting blade, the impact vibrating through their bones. “You did when you allied yourself with Nicodemus Townsend.” She drove Yvette back by pushing the dagger against the knife. Even with the fighting sounds around them, Cloudia could hear the knife crack. So cheap and brittle and nothing compared to her father’s dagger.

“Townsend is an idiot,” said Yvette. Her knife broke, and she staggered back.

“Finally something we can agree on.” Cloudia shoved her back against the wall and pinned her to it by driving the dagger into her left hand. Yvette cried out, her scream of agony mixing with all the others around them. “You are an idiot too,” Cloudia noted and patted down Yvette. “If you had attached yourself to any other megalomaniac man, you might have got all you wished for.”

With a grin, Cloudia pulled out the box and something odd and metallic – Milton’s transmitter. “Or, if you had simply done the work yourself.” She pocketed the transmitter right away, though showed the box to Yvette once more before she put it in her trousers; feeling its weight against her body was the greatest delight. “I would have had more sympathy and respect for you if you had just run away and gone to seduce a rich man. But getting away wasn’t your only incentive, of course.”

“You would have wished destruction upon that place too if you had grown up there.” Yvette ground her teeth. “I was even the village’s princess! And still, or rather because of that, I was treated like I was. My position never made anything better for me, only trapped me more. With nowhere to go, no one to be, living only by the path others have set out for you…”

Cloudia grabbed Yvette by her hair. Yvette winced and looked at her with hate-filled eyes. “Good, look at me like that,” said Cloudia and pulled her closer. “Do you think you are the only one who lives like that? The only one with that rage? You are nothing special, Yvette Guilloux. If you had accepted that, you would not have found yourself in this situation.”

“Cloudia!” Cedric cried behind her, right before a gunshot rang through the air, and pain through her.

***

~Cedric~

Everything went out of focus. Cedric could only make out the next person bumping into him when they were right beside him.

Shit. Cedric went on all fours, feeling for his glasses.

Shit, shit, shit.

Cloudia was after Yvette, and I could only just discern the cobblestones.

People stumbled against him, fell over him, trampled on him. Cedric clenched his jaw, crawling forward and forward, nonetheless. As long as they only stepped on him, not on his glasses, he could endure anything.

Every scream set him on edge. Cloudia could stand her own against Yvette, he knew that. However, he also knew that Yvette was an annoyingly crafty girl, and everyone around them was full of anger. If Yvette couldn’t hurt Cloudia, a soldier or insurrectionist might.

Cedric patted down every millimetre of the ground until something broke in him and he began hammering on it. His skin ripped open. And he kept on hammering and hammering his fist against the stone.

What am I doing, what am I doing? I thought as I punched and punched the stone ground.

Cloudia needs me.

Cedric drew his injured hand to his face, inhaled sharply, and kept on searching.

Tears glistened in his eyes when his fingers finally brushed against his glasses. Cedric curled his hand around them and stood up. He held them close to his face and made a mental note to bake a ton of biscuits for the Glasses Department for their sturdy handicraft: His glasses had been kicked around the street and into a corner and were still intact.

Cedric put them back on and sighed in relief when everything sharpened again. Then, he looked around for the street in which Cloudia had disappeared and hurried to it. Inside it, she was pinning Yvette to a wall and speaking to her.

“If you had accepted that…” Cedric heard her say. His blood both rushed hot through his body and ran cold when he noticed Yvette’s hand inching towards Cloudia’s gun holster.

Cedric charged forward.

“… you would not have found…,” Cloudia continued.

Yvette pulled out the gun.

“… yourself in this situation.”

“Cloudia!”

Her name and the shot echoed in tandem through the street.

Earlier, his surroundings had blurred.

Now, they fell away.

All screams and shouts and cries; all hisses and grunts; the clattering of weapons; the dull clash of bodies hitting the ground – it all went away.

As did the people. The coppery, smoky air. The buildings around.

Everything was black, and his body moved as if it was not his. Forward, forward to…

“Do not dare!”

Cloudia’s shout rattled him awake, brought everything back to their places. Cedric was momentarily stunned by all the sensations crashing upon him at once. It took him a second to see that Cloudia had thrown herself between him and Yvette, spreading her arms to shield her from Cedric. Yvette watched the scene unfold, equal parts dumbfounded and curious.

“I promised you,” Cloudia struggled to say. “I promised that you would never… never have to interfere with life and death.”

Something inside Cedric shattered. The rest of his bloodthirst vanished and was immediately replaced by cold horror.

What if I had not been able to stop at the right moment, blinded with rage as I had been, and had attacked Cloudia in my frenzy?

“You...,” Cloudia began and reeled to the side. Instinctively, Cedric moved forward and caught her in his arms, her body so fragile in his embrace. The bloodstain on her stomach was growing. He placed a hand on it first, then grabbed the edge of his coat to press it against the wound in an attempt to stop the flow, in vain.

What had I done?

“I’m so sorry,” sputtered it out of Cedric. “I’m so sorry, Countess, that I wasn’t here.”

He craned his head, looked around for Yvette, but she had already escaped. “You got hurt, and Yvette got away, I…” His grip around her tightened.

Ghostly fingers brushed his face. “I got the box. It’s okay,” Cloudia murmured, her voice so faint it made his heart ache.

Cedric scooped her up and then bent down with her in his arms when he saw the dagger on the ground, shimmering in the light even as it was speckled with blood. He picked it up and pocketed it before he searched for a quiet place.

How quickly things had changed. Not even half an hour ago, he had carried her the same way and recklessly jumped step-by-step over a building. He had been filled with idiotic giddiness then. Now, Cedric was holding her as carefully as he could in this chaos, and all he felt was numb.

He kicked open the door to an empty café, carried Cloudia into the back. Gently, Cedric placed her on a table and ripped her shirt a bit to take a look at the injury. Her protective corset must have swallowed some of the impact at least; it had to. But that didn’t change the facts that it was not bulletproof, and that Yvette had shot her from close range. Cedric cut open the corset with shaky hands. Ice spread through his stomach at the sight of the gaping wound.

There was so much blood, so much blood, so much…

Cedric looked down on himself, saw the stain on his clothes. The bullet must have passed through her. Breathing unevenly, he searched her pockets for the roll of gauze he knew she had taken.

“I don’t have it anymore,” Cloudia whispered. Her eyes fluttered open and closed. “Gave… gave it to Kam…”

Cedric took her hand, pressed it. It felt so cold. “It’s okay. It’s okay, Countess. I will find something. They will have something. They must have something. Please stay awake. Please, Countess.”

Mustering up great strength, Cedric let go of her and rummaged through the drawers, the cupboards, the shelves.

If Kamden or Miss Greene had been here, they could have patched her up; Alfred maybe too. Milton would have been hurt still, but it wouldn’t have prevented him from being calm and able to find a solution in any adversity. Barrington and even Oscar would have been able to help her, having experience with high-risk, high-injury situations. Aurèle would have gone out and yelled for help and then dragged someone back by the ear. Even little Jacques and his encyclopaedic knowledge about whatnot would have been more helpful than me.

Teleporting her in this fragile state might only worsen everything.

I… I didn’t even have a Death Book to check if… if…

I inhaled sharply.

What could I even do?

Not even in my living life, I had cared to learn how to keep anyone alive. What had it mattered to me then and after I had become a Grim Reaper? All I knew, all I learned, was death.

Cedric slammed a drawer shut and buried his face in his hands. Only then did he notice that Cloudia had been mumbling something to herself.

“He led the physician to his, and when the physician saw how tiny his candle was…” Her voice was weak, half the words fading away not fully formed, but Cloudia kept on. With a pang, Cedric realised that she hadn’t been murmuring to herself; she had been murmuring to him.

“Death pretended to fulfil his godson’s dying wish…”

A frantic chuckle tore itself out of him as Cedric stepped forward with a dish towel. He pressed it against her stomach and grabbed her hand. “You went macabre even quicker, Countess.”

“… to a new one, he deliberately dropped it…”

Her eyes fluttered closed. Cedric waited for the rest that didn’t come.

“Countess?”

“Cloudia?”

***

London, England, United Kingdom – June 1843

~Cloudia~

Cloudia inspected herself in the mirror one last time and smoothed her already straight dress with her hands before she made her way downstairs.

Barrington and Oscar had moved out of her townhouse a few days ago when Oscar’s probation had ended without a problem. They had mostly avoided each other and spared Cloudia any headache or trouble. Still, near-palpable tension had electrified the air during that time; one wrong move, one wrong word and everything could have blown up. Now, Cloudia did not have to move as if on eggshells anymore, and the soles of her shoes demonstratively made clack sounds as she descended the stairs. Normalcy had not yet returned to the townhouse though.

There was one more visitor Cloudia had to take care of before she could allow herself to let her shoulders sink, sigh in relief, and be engulfed in brilliant silence and peace.

Cloudia plastered a smile on her face when she reached the entrance hall. “Good afternoon, Police Commissioner Rowan,” she greeted the Met’s head. “May you follow me to the parlour?”

***

There had been no more meetings at Scotland Yard since Cloudia’s first and only one a year ago. It had been satisfying to see Rowan’s clouded gaze when he had stepped into her parlour for their second meeting, his sheer unmasked displeasure at having to enter the Phantomhive townhouse again. Richard Mayne had not been as hostile as his colleague, though he seldom joined Rowan on these visits. Today, Mayne was absent again. Cloudia knew the reason why this time: Rowan hadn’t come to conclude any Watchdog case. There had been none lately, even if she had morbidly hoped Queen Victoria would transfer the month-old case about the mangled corpse from the Thames to her. Scotland Yard had identified the body as a nobleman’s after all, but her hope had gone nowhere. No, Oscar was the topic for today, and Rowan solely handled everything that had to do with his former protégé.

Cloudia and Rowan were quiet until Clifford set out everything, poured them cups of tea, and left the drawing room with a bow for them both and a look for Cloudia to indicate that he would be outside if she needed him. As soon as he was gone, Rowan put down his cup without having drunk a sip.

“Do not be afraid, Police Commissioner,” Cloudia said and lifted her own cup. “I have not poisoned anything on this table – and neither did Oscar if you fear he left a little gift behind for you.”

“I know that Oscar Livingstone would never attempt to kill me,” Rowan replied. “He is well-aware of the repercussions and would never take that risk. I simply have no appetite; I lose it every time I think about that wretched man.” His gaze darkened. “How low this country has fallen; pardoning a serial killer to satisfy a thirteen-year-old child’s whims and giving him a house where he can live mostly unsupervised.”

“There is no one around where Oscar lives now,” Cloudia remarked. “No soul lives anywhere close to his house. Her Majesty has made some arrangements to ensure he does not run away, and so did I. I might have requested Oscar’s pardon, but Her Majesty decided to accept and fulfil it. Are you doubting her sense of judgement?”

Rowan glared at Cloudia. “I would never doubt my sovereign. However, Her Majesty has been on the throne for only six years; since she had been merely eighteen, no less. She does not have enough experience yet, and one simply cannot be cautious enough with a Livingstone. You housed him for a month; even you must have noticed that there is something deeply wrong with him.”

“He was pleasant enough to be around,” Cloudia said truthfully. It might have been even more pleasant if it had not been for Barrington’s hostility, she added in her mind. “Quiet; mostly kept to himself; often stayed in one place without moving much for a long time if he had a book at hand or so. Oscar could win a prize at a ‘Pretend to be a Piece of Furniture’ tournament.”

Rowan chuckled. “I assure you, Countess Phantomhive, that whenever Livingstone might appear calm on the outside, he is pure restlessness within. Did you know that Livingstone’s time at the asylum was not the first time he had been locked away? His grandparents used to lock him in a shed, and he slept in a lockable box bed. Both his parents had been ailed with restiveness. The rumours are true; his real father was that wandering trickster, and his mother had been drawn to him because they were birds of a feather. A foolish choice that ruined her life because he abandoned her and ran away. It has always troubled me – the possibility that Livingstone’s father might be alive and somewhere out there.”

Cloudia stifled a laugh, though a grin managed to break through. “You are afraid of a wandering magician who must be in his sixties or seventies by now? Do you fear you might end up in the same retirement centre as him, and he will be your eternal bridge partner?”

“You would not be so flippant, Countess Phantomhive, if you knew what I do,” Rowan hissed. “No one knows Oscar Livingstone as I do. As I said, his grandparents kept him under lock and key in the hope it would quench his restlessness. It did not. Instead, Livingstone only learned to hide his disquiet, his anger, his thoughts. You can never quite know what he is up to, what is going on in that head of his.” Rowan’s eyes met Cloudia’s. “Do you know when Livingstone started his serial murders?”

“In 1833,” Cloudia said.

“When his eldest daughter died,” Rowan said, and Cloudia’s stomach churned. “I know he must have told you about his family. About his wife and children. His daughter had only been one or two years old when she died; I cannot recall.” He laughed dryly. “Oscar Livingstone, the monster on the battlefield, the Met’s most feared inspector, a man with nerves of steel, had completely unravelled upon the death of his daughter.

“He had been different after her death, after the funeral, of course. The cracks were subtle but there; with time, he returned to his default – or so everyone had thought. Livingstone started killing people not long after his daughter’s death. His murderous spree would have lasted for many more years if someone had not found his basement – by chance.” Rowan leaned forward. “He had been killing people for nearly five years, Countess Phantomhive, all while displaying zero outward signs that he had gone mad. No one had known that he had spiralled so far, that the cracks his daughter’s death had left never healed at all, only deepened. Neither I nor his beloved wife had noticed that anything was amiss.

“Trudy Livingstone.” Rowan spoke her name with an odd tone, a strange mix of fascination and disdain. “She was such a curiosity. A perfect English Rose in appearance and demeanour, but there was something off about her that I could never put my finger on. For years, I had tried to figure out what exactly was wrong with her, and something had to be wrong with her; after all, she had married a monster like Oscar Livingstone. And then I told her about her husband’s crimes.

“I had been unable to catch any signs of Livingstone’s misdeeds and inner turmoil. The contents of his basement did not surprise me at all though, for I had always known that he was capable of such gruesome acts. Trudy, however, had been genuinely shocked when I informed her about what Livingstone had done. All these years, I had thought her to be sharper than she seemed, only for her to prove me wrong too. I guess there was nothing wrong with her at all; she was just a stupid little girl who thought a monster would change if you loved it enough.”

Rowan stood up. “Livingstone bottled up years of restlessness and anger when he was a child. You should have seen him on the field when he could finally let it out. I doubt he has made any progress in the asylum; his madness must have only grown. I’ve seen what he did when he lost his daughter – and now, he has lost them all. We have restricted him as best as we could, but how long will the dam last before it breaks?

“When the inevitable comes, how will you know if we could not?”

***

Countryside, England, United Kingdom – June 1843

“Now, Cloudia, dear, where is that murderer?” Cecelia asked before Clifford had the chance to collect her top hat and luggage. “Did he arrive already, or is he still in the process of wiping out an idyllic village on the way?”

“Hello to you too, Cecelia,” Cloudia sighed.

After the meeting with Rowan, Cloudia had returned to her manor which she had missed so much. Two weeks had passed since; two weeks of lovely respite and minimal social contact. A streak that could have gone on forever; a streak that was now broken by this gathering.

The first meeting of Cloudia’s new set of Aristocrats of Evil. An event both important and nerve-wracking. Cloudia wished she had not freed Oscar from his cell at all, simply so that she would not have to endure this meeting. It had to be done, of course; she knew that. For Barrington, Cecelia, and Oscar to work together in the best way possible they had to get to know one another, even if they were most definitely never going to become friends. The sky would shatter into pieces and rain upon the earth before Barrington befriended Oscar, and Cecelia had not yet wasted any opportunity to tell Cloudia how foolish she had been when she had gone to that asylum and picked out its worst inmate. With Barrington and Oscar living with her, it had become impossible to hide Oscar from Cecelia. Cloudia had been surprised that she had managed to conceal her secret from her for so long at all. Cecelia had nearly choked on her tea when Cloudia had told her one afternoon at the Williams guest house.

“You haven’t answered my question, my dear,” said Cecelia now and headed to the Aristocrats’ Bureau. Though the fact that Cecelia moved through Phantomhive Manor as if she owned it was nothing new, the speed with which she did it today, however, was so unlike her that Cloudia was momentarily stunned.

Cloudia shot Clifford an apologetic look before she hurried after Cecelia. “He was the first to arrive,” Cloudia told her. “Barrington is here too; I only just led him upstairs.”

“Those two are currently all alone in one room? Let us hope that Barrington makes himself useful for once and kills that man before we even reach the correct corridor.”

Cloudia sighed again. “Cecelia, I told you that…”

Cecelia suddenly whirled around. She was over a decade older than Cloudia, though not much taller and built like a frail little bird. It was easy to forget that Cecelia could be broken like a twig with little effort because she emanated such confidence at every given moment. Cloudia nearly forgot it now when Cecelia planted herself in front of her, her full imposing self seemingly towering over her despite her lack of height or width.

“Cloudia, I heard you the first time and all the times after that. I can understand you too. If I learned that Michael was secretly best friends with a convicted serial murderer on death row, I would free them too to get any answers I can,” Cecelia hissed. “However, I would not like it, not when it is about you or me. And I know you and your family have blood on your hands as well, but someone like the Scotland Yard Ripper is something else altogether. There is shockingly little known about that case, you know? I tried looking into it after you told me you saved Oscar Livingstone from execution. All I could uncover was an endless pit of rumours and speculations about what could have been in that basement room. Whether he was killing these people for ritualistic purposes or experimentation, whether he turned his victims into clothes or furniture or both, whether he ate them, and so on and so forth. There was nothing else!

“Michael’s murder sent ripples of shock through mostly noble circles. Oscar’s crimes were a tsunami that swept through the entire country! And there’s nothing! I could find out more about you!” Cecelia took a deep, deep breath. “Cloudia, dear,” she continued much calmer. “I will muster as much civility as I can in his presence. This is all I can promise you. Nevertheless, I wholeheartedly think that you are making a terrible mistake. But what is done is done, and I know nothing can change your mind now. We can only hope that when you finally understand and learn your lesson, Oscar will not kill us all…” As if on cue, shouts drifted from the Bureau. “… and that Barrington is currently rolling his corpse into a carpet,” Cecelia added.

Leaving Cecelia behind, Cloudia hastened to the Aristocrats’ Bureau. Barrington and Oscar were both still alive – the argument kept going on and was spooking a nearby maid passing through – but things could escalate and change very, very quickly.

Cloudia ripped the door open. “What on earth is going on here?” she demanded to know.

Barrington and Oscar had stood in front of each other, almost as close as they could get without touching, and staring the other one down. Now, they took a step back. Cloudia went to them and waved them further apart.

“Right after you left, Dia, he took out a knife,” Barrington told her and glared at Oscar who, to Cloudia’s surprise, glared back.

“I wouldn’t even need a knife if I wanted to kill you, Weaselton,” Oscar returned.

“I am not one of Rowan and Mayne’s little lackeys; do you honestly think you could take me on with your bare hands?”

“Yes,” Oscar said automatically.

Barrington laughed hollowly. “Then you’re severely underestimating me, Livingstone.”

“Underestimate? You? You have never glimpsed at a proper battle before, you pampered fool.”

“You’re saying I don’t know what a proper fight is?”

“Yes, of course, that’s why I’m saying! Do you need everything to be spelt out for you tenfold?”

“When I’m done with you, we’ll need to change your name to ‘Deadstone’ because I used to…”

“Enough!” exclaimed Cloudia and rubbed her face. “What is wrong with you two? You managed to live together for nearly a month without going at each other’s throats! And you’re choosing today of all days to pick a fight?” She spun to Oscar. “Why did you suddenly take out a knife? And…” Cloudia turned to Barrington. “… did Oscar even do anything threatening with it?”

“He took it out and shot me the nastiest look,” Barrington explained without taking his eyes off Oscar. “I yelled at him before he could do anything. And didn’t Old Ted pat him down for weapons?”

“As I’ve repeatedly told you, Weaselton, I could have killed you without it if I wanted to,” Oscar snapped at him. “Not everything is about you.”

“I said ‘enough’!” Cloudia shouted. From the corner of her eye, she saw that Cecelia was standing in the doorsill, watching the happenings with a raised eyebrow. Cloudia sighed and rubbed her face again. “You are two grown men who behave like my cousins when they used to fight over toys. Barrington, you will sit down and cool off. Cecelia, please come in and take a seat. And you…” Cloudia looked up and narrowed her eyes at Oscar. “You are coming with me. We need to talk.”

Cloudia guided Oscar to her office on the other side of the manor, making him walk in shame behind her. At least, she hoped he felt shame; he better did. When they arrived, she gestured for him to sit down in front of her desk while she took her seat behind it. Cloudia had never attended school, but she wanted to believe it was like this when an unruly child was summoned to the headmaster.

“Now, Oscar,” Cloudia began, trying her best to keep her voice calm. “What is going on? I’m used to that level of hostility from Barrington but from you? Previously, you were only ever annoyed whenever he expressed his dislike of you. Why are you suddenly provoking him too? I hope you haven’t decided to stop pretending to be civil because your probation period is over – that one was just for the housing; you are on endless probation, Oscar. Any misdemeanour can and will get you sent to the execution chamber – and me in serious trouble. And what’s with the knife Barrington mentioned? Give it to me.”

Cloudia held out her hand. Oscar produced a small knife from his pocket and gave it to her. “It’s a carving knife,” he said. “Clifford let me keep it when I explained why I had it with me.”

“And what is the reason?”

Oscar took out a piece of wood and placed it on the desk. “Habit from when I was a child,” Oscar told her. “I make little wood figures.”

“Little figures of what?” Cloudia asked and picked up the piece, mustering its uneven, rough furrows with great curiosity.

“Of all sorts of things. I have made thousands of them in my lifetime,” he replied.

Cloudia looked up from the log and blinked at him. “Thousands?”

“My grandparents used to lock me in a shed. At first, I simply sat inside and waited even if it bored and bothered me greatly. Then, I began to count and re-count every item in that shed, every log that comprised it until I found a little knife in there one day. The shack was full of wood, so I started making figurines out of them. Picking up wood carving was better than nothing to keep me busy,” Oscar explained and shrugged as if it was a perfectly normal childhood story. “I never broke the habit as it’s a good way to pass the time. My grandparents destroyed some figures. I binned some and left others here and there because I could not be bothered to take them with me. I did keep many though, and unless someone threw them all out while I was jailed, they must be in my manor.

“Earlier, I started one while I was waiting alone. I put it away when you arrived with Weaselton and wanted to resume after you left, only I could not because Weaselton went on a tirade after I took out the knife.”

“That’s… that’s a surprising hobby for you to have,” Cloudia noted. “But when you’re always doing that when you’re bored, how come I haven’t seen you carve anything back at the townhouse?”

“I didn’t want to request a knife with Weaselton around. He would have reacted like he did just now if I had.”

Cloudia sighed. “You’re right. Now, tell me, Oscar,” she continued, her voice softening, “what is wrong?”

“Nothing is wrong, Mylady.”

“Do not lie to me, Oscar. You concealed it well but not well enough.” She picked up the unfinished figurine. “I am not knowledgeable about wood carving, and I doubt you lied when you said that you have been doing this since childhood. This does not look like the work of someone who has been doing it for so long though: It is a choppy mess. And if you began your carving before Barrington entered the Bureau, his presence is not the reason for your sloppiness. Something else must be upsetting you. Something from which you have to distract yourself – to the point that you would take out a knife before Barrington and risk a quarrel.”

Oscar went very quiet for a moment. “Simon’s daughter, indeed,” he said at last, sounding suddenly very tired.

“What has happened? Did Trudy’s friend die, or was it the anniversary of something recently?”

Oscar went still again, and Cloudia knew that he would not tell her what exactly was discomposing him, no matter how much she probed him. “Very well,” she said. “Whatever is going on, whatever happened, there is no reason to be so hostile towards Barrington. Didn’t you say you are used to people like him?”

A shadow hushed over Oscar’s face. “I am used to people like Trudy’s friend who is certainly not like Weaselton.” He looked at her. “I took the liberty to investigate my new colleagues in the last few weeks. Unlike ‘Cecelia’ I do not have to leave the house for that at all. Daisy, Scott, and Ishmael are excellent information gatherers as people tend to underestimate and ignore them because they are blind, mute, and deaf.

“Although I’ve known Weaselton for too long, I have never kept any tabs on him. And after your father distanced himself from me, I never interacted with any of his friends anymore either. That was a decade ago; I wanted to update my knowledge of Weaselton.” Oscar’s eyes darkened. “I didn’t think he would abandon his family like that.”

“So, you decided to be hostile towards Barrington because he divorced his wife?” Cloudia asked, baffled. “Oscar, just because your wife is dead does not mean you can and should hate everyone who divorced theirs.”

Oscar opened his mouth to speak but then closed it again and only mustered her for a moment. “I see,” he said and laughed hollowly. “I apologise, Mylady, I will not try to throttle him again, though he has to apologise to you too, it seems.”

#watchdog of the queen #main chapters #cloudia phantomhive #claudia phantomhive #undertaker #kuroshitsuji #black butler #I FINISHED IIIIIIT #OMFG #I had to shorten the Ao3 endnotes multiple times - it's so over for me #very glad I still made it on the May 9 :)#happy 'execution' day oscar heh #(only remembered that a few hours ago and rushed to get this done today but I was still very careful)#and happy 500k to me 😭#thanks for reading this omg

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